


New Fronts

by Jlocked, The_Lady_of_Purpletown



Series: Frontlines [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood, Boys Kissing, Fluff, Gore, Johnlock - Freeform, Knife Play, M/M, Phone Sex, Sequel, Sheriarty - Freeform, Smut, Torture, War Trauma, mormor, own cases
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 06:58:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 32
Words: 81,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1216864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jlocked/pseuds/Jlocked, https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lady_of_Purpletown/pseuds/The_Lady_of_Purpletown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <i><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/875256/chapters/1682083">Between Frontlines</a></i>. As John is settling back into civilian life, he makes a temporary arrangement with Sherlock to stay over at his place. Being dragged along to cases, he gets to know the detective quite well. Sherlock has recovered from his addiction and time with Moran. Perhaps a little too well?<br/>Updates every Friday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was supposed to be a solution for just a few days. Despite Sherlock’s help in the search for flats, they hadn’t found anything suitable that John could afford before he could leave the hospital. In his own pompous way, Sherlock had suggested that he could stay with him for the time it took them to find a place for John, and John had accepted gratefully, glad that he didn’t need to spend money on a hotel. Going to Harry hadn’t been an option, as he had still not spoken to her after their row, and it felt ridiculous to decline the offer after Sherlock had come to visit John almost every day (the only exception was when he had been on an extremely juicy murder case) and they had gotten comfortable with each other’s presence. Still, John had felt a little awkward when they had arrived at the flat. It wasn’t so much the poison on the kitchen table, the body parts in the fridge or the mess of books and petri dishes. It was just as if he couldn’t remember living outside a hospital or war zone, and simply taking a seat in a soft chair with a cup of tea made him feel awkward and itchy, almost nervous.No

Fortunately, they hadn’t been sat down for long before a grey-haired man, that Sherlock addressed as Lestrade and John only knew from the papers of the last few days, rushed in with news about serial suicides.

It had become a day of running around far too much for someone who had only just healed from a severe war wound, giggling at inappropriate moments and John shooting a man to, maybe, save Sherlock’s life.

And when they next returned to the flat, John had felt at ease. At home. He was back on the battlefield.

 

Of course, that little action of killing a cabbie had caught Mycroft’s attention. It turned out that it was almost impossible to get Sherlock to do some decent shopping, so the next day, John got on his way. And was kidnapped. He had been prepared after long emails and Skype chats with Sherlock complaining about his brother’s meddling, and the fact that Mycroft hadn’t approved of Sherlock’s contact with him in the first place. In only slightly more polite terms, he told Mycroft to stuff it at his offer to make John spy on the detective for money. Back in 221B Baker Street, Sherlock’s reaction to the events made John chuckle, and then he was dragged along to another crime scene and the days had become a blur.

 

It was more than a week later when things finally became calm enough to sit down and look for flats again. Sherlock lay on the sofa, moaning that he was bored, but even then it was nice to have company. John had started to learn by now when it was worthwhile to listen to the detective and when he could simply ignore his voice.

Yet after a while, he got distracted from his laptop. Sherlock had stopped whining and was reading something with a very uninterested expression on his face, but now the inactivity had begun creeping into John’s mind too, stirring thoughts he would rather have kept below the surface.

Mary. Moran’s victims in Afghanistan. The fact that if he had told Mary to stay out of that basement, she would still have been alive. That if he hadn’t pulled her into the bullet’s path, she would have had a chance. It were all impossibilities, there was nothing he could change about what had happened. Even if he could go back, Mary would never have allowed him to go into the basement on his own, so that Moran would only have come after him. And in a twisted way, their friendship would never have grown as strong without sharing the experience of that horrible discovery. But she would have been alive. If he had known what would happen on the night she died, he would have ordered her to stay behind and get more rest, so she wouldn’t be in the jeep Moran attacked. He could have saved the two other men if he had just gone on his own. Of course he couldn’t have known, and there was no way to go back in time. But if he could, he would.

The worst thing was that there was still no trace of Moran. No trace of a chance to have revenge. The witness Sherlock had set his hopes on, Jane Levington, had never been found again. That was slightly worrying, but somehow Sherlock seemed confident that she was alright and had simply found a good way to hide. And after everything Moran had done to Sherlock, they didn’t really need her anymore. They just needed to find Moran.

The problem was that there was no way they would get any help. After all, Mycroft wouldn’t allow Sherlock to get in touch with the colonel again after everything that had happened, and in a way, that reassured John too. But as the two Holmes brothers wouldn’t help each other, nothing really happened to the case. The police wouldn’t let Sherlock in on it. Maybe Moran was even making other victims somewhere, terrorising them like he had done to Mary and Miller and all those others - and nothing was done about it. At least Miller had made it through his injuries. He was now invalided home, just like John, and as expected they hadn’t gotten in touch.

John sighed, trying to focus on a description of a flat, but it was no use.

Sherlock groaned in frustration as he sat up and ruffled his hair.

"I should get a job," John mumbled. "There's no way I'm going to live in something like that." He waved at his screen.

Sherlock frowned and looked over at him. Then he shrugged. "It's a fake anyway," he said. "The guy who made the ad will accept deposits from as many hopeful people as he can and then take the money and run before someone realises he does not own the flat and the building is condemned."

"Oh. In that case he could have tried to make it a little more attractive," John said, closing the window and turning away from his laptop.

"No, John," Sherlock said, smiling at him. "Overselling it would have made people suspicious. He's only looking for those, desperate enough to not be careful."

"Yeah, well, I'm getting pretty desperate and even I wouldn't want to go for it," John shrugged, getting up and stretching.

"Even if you were staying at a hotel, eating up your limited funds day by day? Or with a troublesome family member, the atmosphere growing increasingly toxic? Would you still not be interested?" Sherlock observed him as he spoke.

"Is this your subtle way of saying I should get a move on and get out of here?" John asked, smiling a little.

Sherlock paused, looking almost perplexed. "No..." he said. "I was actually saying that you are not in such a rush as having to take anything you can find. You have not posed any kind of inconvenience. Yet."

John chuckled. "Thanks. I'll try not to let that happen, though. But I really need a job if I don't want to end up in a dump."

Sherlock nodded. "I suppose so," he said. He was headed for the kitchen when suddenly his phone, that was still on the table by the sofa, buzzed. He spun around and squinted at it, then launched himself towards it.

"Yes!" he exclaimed as he read the text.

John smiled. "A case?"

"Murder!" Sherlock said, as he ran towards his bedroom. "A really bloody one."

John shook his head at his enthusiasm, though he was still smiling.

A moment later, the detective returned, buttoning a fresh shirt, his trousers still undone and sliding a little off his hips as he grinned at John. "Let's go," he said eagerly.

"Are you sure you want me to come along?" John asked hesitantly. "I mean, it's not like I can be much help to you. Maybe I should use the time to look at some job ads."

Sherlock frowned. "I... I suppose so. But I was kind of hoping you could come. You being a doctor and all. There'll be lots of blood. It's really quite ghastly."

For a moment, John's gaze shifted between his jacket and his laptop. "Yeah, alright, I guess it can wait for a few hours." He stepped towards the door and shrugged on his jacket.

 

…

 

"Sherlock..." John took a step back, almost bumping into the doorpost. A gruesome crime scene, okay. This? Very much not okay.

The whole floor was splattered with blood. The remains of the woman's body lay in the hall - all over the hall.

Cautiously, adjusting his protective suit, he went closer to the body and took a steadying breath, immediately regretting it as the smell hit him.

He looked up at Sherlock, who nodded.

"Okay..." The young woman lay on her back, her stomach ripped open and bloody. The vital organs lay spread around it; liver, lungs, it was all there. He kneeled to study a small bit. "It's like there are... tooth marks," he said softly. He looked over at the other, similar bits, spread around. "It's her heart. They ripped up her heart." He swallowed difficultly, giving Sherlock an almost pleading look.

Sherlock nodded, smiling a little. "Yes. So it would seem. I wonder what he did with the eyes."

"Yes. He... clawed them out, it seems." John stood up again, looking very uncomfortable. "Tell me this isn't normal to you, Sherlock."

"I have never seen anything like this," Lestrade said, shaking his head and looking pale. "Are you sure the one who did this was even human?"

"No, of course not," Sherlock said, walking over to a small bloody pile and crouching down to examine it. "We obviously have a werewolf loose in London. Or possibly an expatriate wendigo."

"I meant that it could have been a wild animal," Lestrade said, rolling his eyes. "Who does this?"

John shook his head. "At first sight, it seems like this was really caused by human teeth and fingers."

"So at least we have traces of their DNA, right?" Lestrade said.

"Probably," Sherlock said. "But if this... creature... had killed before and therefore was already in the system, don't you think we'd have heard about it?"

"Maybe... it... didn't let itself go like that before," John said.

Sherlock sort of nodded, then froze as he stared at the mutilated body. Then he turned to Lestrade. "Have you identified her yet?" he asked, sounding slightly agitated.

"Not yet," Lestrade said. "I was going to ask if you had any clues to her identity."

"Maybe,” Sherlock said. Without another word, he turned and stormed out.

"Sherlock?" John called, but the detective had already run down the stairs and Donovan gave him a look that very clearly said "told you so". He rolled his eyes and turned back to Lestrade.

"What's he on to?" Lestrade asked, looking confused.

"No idea," John shrugged.

"Right," Lestrade said, waving his arm so John would get out of the way. "Time to get the forensics in and clean up this mess."

 

As there was nothing left for John to do, he finally decided to return to the flat, hoping that Sherlock would be back there too. Yet he found the flat empty and Sherlock didn't answer his texts. With a sigh, he took his laptop and started looking at the job ads.

 

…

 

Once John finally managed to focus, it all went rather quickly. The hospital had been in urgent need of a doctor, and the next morning he was having an interview. Afterwards he felt rather confident that he had got the job, and they would let him know soon. Only when he was back at the flat, did he start to feel worried again. He hadn’t seen Sherlock since the crime scene. Before John had temporarily moved in with him, Sherlock had warned him that sometimes he didn’t talk for days on end, and their first case together had already shown John that he sometimes simply disappeared. But so far, he had always returned after a few hours. Now it had been almost 24 hours and John started to get worried. And it would have been nice to share the good news about his job with someone. A small voice in the back of his head told him that that kind of news was perhaps a good start of a conversation with Harry, but he still didn’t feel ready to contact her. He grabbed his phone and called Sherlock, but apparently the detective had turned off his phone or perhaps the battery had run out by now.

In the evening, John began seriously considering whether he should contact Mycroft. But on the other hand, that was exactly the sort of spying the elder Holmes had asked for. Sherlock wouldn’t forgive him if he walked in five minutes after John had finished a call with Mycroft, and John wasn’t exactly looking forward to another chat with the British government either. Maybe that Scotland Yard inspector then. He seemed to work with Sherlock more often, so there was a chance he’d know where he was off to, and he had saved his number just in case.

Yet it turned out that Lestrade had no idea either, and that he was stuck on the case without Sherlock’s help, so he asked John to kick Sherlock his bloody way as soon as he saw him. John was starting to like that man. Yet he also heard a hint of worry in Lestrade’s voice, and he was rather convinced that he would contact Mycroft after all. Maybe it was for the best. It had become clear enough that Sherlock led a dangerous life and that someone needed to keep an eye on him. Perhaps Sherlock had even realised that himself. It might have been the reason for inviting John to stay as long as he wanted.

 

As Sherlock still hadn’t given any sign of life the next morning, John began to get increasingly frustrated. Either the man really had done something incredibly stupid again, or he just didn’t care that people might worry about him.

Then, in the late afternoon, there was a sound downstairs. A kind of thud, followed by a grunt.

John frowned and got up to stand by the door, ready to attack whoever tried to come in. Then the door opened and he took a step back in shock. If he hadn't seen this side of Sherlock before on Skype, he wouldn't immediately have recognised him.

"What on earth have you been doing?"

"Working," Sherlock slurred, staggering inside. As he passed, a powerful stench of sweat, beer and cigarettes assailed John's sense of smell. It almost made his eyes water.

"Working," John repeated. "So that's what you mean when you say that the work is the most important thing to you. And there I thought you meant you needed the brain activity."

Sherlock glared at him. "I was working. I have been checking in with Moran's old network. To see if he had resurfaced. Or if there was any news about his boss."

John stared at him, silent for a long moment. "You were looking for Moran on your own? After all this? Are you crazy?"

Sherlock seemed to ignore this as he headed for the kitchen. "Do you remember what I told you about Moran's boss?" he asked as he got a bottle of water from the fridge.

"Sherlock, I don't care. Right now I just don't care about Moran's boss. You were away for two days. No one knew where you were. And now you come in, drunk and smelling, and act like nothing happened."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Think, John. Think. What did I tell you about Moran's boss? About his methods?"

John sighed. "Right. Just ignore me. Why not? I'm only your friend."

Sherlock groaned with frustration. "Never mind," he said and pushed past John, heading for the bathroom.

"No." John grabbed his arm and looked up at him. "You can't go on like this. On your own, keeping everything hidden. I want to help, but you'll have to trust me. We've seen where doing everything alone has led you."

"I would be happy to have someone help me," Sherlock snapped, taking a step closer so that he was looming over John. "Someone actually equipped with a long term memory and the ability to make simple connections."

John gave him a very cold look. "Do you really think I hadn't made the connection with this case by now? That doesn't mean you had to go risk your life again."

Sherlock turned away. "I haven't been risking my life. I have been having a couple of pints and a lot of second hand smoke. Stevenson is back in town and if I am going to prove that it was Moran's boss who took out Levington, it will be by putting myself out there."

"That was Jane Levington? The witness?" John asked, shocked. "Did you tell Lestrade?"

Sherlock frowned. "No," he said. "Not yet. It wouldn't help him anyway. She has no next of kin and her friends have assumed her dead for several months."

"It might help to find the killer," John said, feeling that he sounded a little weak.

"How? We know who killed her and I can't find him. Do you really think the police are more likely to?"

"I think together you're more likely to," John answered with a shrug.

"Then why don't you inform him?" Sherlock snapped and then stalked down the hallway and into the bathroom, slamming the door unnecessarily hard behind him.

John sighed and took his phone out of his pocket, just to stare at it. Lestrade had to know. And yet it felt wrong to inform him while Sherlock was so reluctant to do so, and while he would probably get in trouble after disappearing for two days. But then of course, he could honestly say that Sherlock had asked him to deliver the message to the police. Sort of. He sighed again and turned away from the bathroom door as he made the call.

 

Sherlock didn’t talk to him when he came out of the bathroom for a cup of tea and a piece of toast, and after that he disappeared into his bedroom for more than ten hours. John was up again and had made breakfast, and now Sherlock was willing to acknowledge his presence in the flat again, although it was clear he was still brooding about the case. For the first time, John began to wonder if he shouldn’t find his own flat for the sake of his own mental health, rather than to avoid being a bother to Sherlock. The problem remained that he didn’t have the money for any decent place in London, but the feeling did motivate him to start another search on his laptop while Sherlock was folded on his chair. Around noon, John got a call from Dr Sawyer that he had the job he had applied for, and to ask if he wanted to talk about it over a drink that evening. Happily, he accepted the offer, and as he put down the phone, Sherlock finally looked at him.

“I won’t be available tonight,” John announced, in case the detective had tuned out.

Sherlock frowned. "No," he said. "I need you."

John raised an eyebrow. "What could you possibly need me for?"

"Company," Sherlock said. "There are places it would be less... conspicuous to go as a couple."

John sighed. "And you couldn't have asked me earlier? I mean... Unless I'm mistaken, this very nice woman is hoping to do things as a couple with me tonight. I don't think I want to let that chance pass."

Sherlock frowned. "You're never busy," he said. "You always come with me."

“Yes, well… Then it isn’t so surprising that I want one night off, is it?”

"But you just had two nights off. And then you complained about me going out on my own." Sherlock looked genuinely confused.

John sighed. "Yes. That made me believe you didn't want my help, so I can better move on, right?"

"Move on? Oh... You mean move out." Sherlock shrugged. "Have you found a place?"

"Not yet. But I did find a job, and Sarah asked me to go for a drink, so that could very well turn out to be a date." John hesitated. "I don't think it would make a good impression if I cancelled it now."

"And that's important? Making a good impression?" Sherlock got to his feet and began pacing the room.

"For a job? Yeah, I'd think so," John shrugged.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "So you're just going on the date to secure the job?"

John smiled a little. "Of course not. It's a nice side effect."

"But is it a good idea?" Sherlock asked, getting out his phone and searching through the contacts.

John frowned. "What do you mean? Why wouldn't it be a good idea?"

"Because you'll be working together?" Sherlock said. "Maybe getting involved isn't such a good idea. If you knew the number of clients I've had because an office romance ended in embezzlement, vandalism or murder..." He found the number he needed and, just as John was about to respond, held a finger to his mouth, listening. Then he smiled before turning away sounding quite different from his usual crisp tone. "Hi... So glad I caught you. I need to ask a favour."

John frowned at his change of demeanour and then rolled his eyes. If Sherlock thought he was the ideal person to give relationship advice... Well, it was not even that. All he had planned was a nice night out, without it having to mean anything close to a relationship. Just a drink and a friendly chat that could lead to more, like it had done so often when he had had time off in Afghanistan. Sherlock just saw it all too serious. John simply wanted to have something else to think about when it came to sex than all the guilt which memories of Mary brought about. Obviously he didn't want to forget about her; he did respect her. But he had to move on. There was no other option, really. And all of that was none of Sherlock's business.

 

"Perfect. Pick you up at eight?" Sherlock asked as he turned towards the window. Then he giggled and hung up.

John looked back at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow. "Who was that?"

Sherlock looked confused, as if he had almost forgotten John was there. "Oh." he said, smiling. "Just a friend. Well... An acquaintance."

"Ah," John said. "So you just replaced me. Well, I'm glad there is someone you trust." He almost felt like telling Sherlock that he had changed his mind and would come with him after all. Almost.

Sherlock shrugged. "He will do. And he'll fit in better anyway. Seem more... believable."

"Great," John said, stomping off to the kitchen to make tea.

 

…

 

Though it had started out nice, it soon enough became clear that John had read too much in Sarah's invitation. She had indeed just wanted to brief him a little about the work and perhaps start a friendship between colleagues, but that was as far as her interest in him reached. Not being used to this course of events on a sort of date, John had perhaps even pushed it a little too far - subtly, but still, their evening had ended rather awkwardly and earlier than expected. Clearly, Sarah shared Sherlock's opinion on relationships between colleagues. Three Continents Watson had lost his magic, he thought grimly, and it hurt to think of how Mary would have laughed if he had said something like that.

He considered sending Sherlock a text so he could go help him after all, but he didn't feel like letting him know that his evening had been a small disaster, even though he would no doubt deduce it as soon as he saw him. Besides, Sherlock had other company. Suitable company for what he was doing. John's help would probably not even be appreciated.

Arriving at the empty flat made him even more irritated. Just knowing that Sherlock was probably being successful at whatever he was doing right now. He didn't need John. How could he even have made himself believe that a broken army doctor could be of any use to the only consulting detective in the world? He made a cup of tea and put on the telly, but nothing could captivate him in his foul mood and he ended up going to bed early.

 


	2. Chapter 2

When Sherlock had first run into Murphy at one of Moran’s old ‘offices’, or, as the rest of the world saw it, a small, cheap pub out in the East End, he first thought he’d have to bolt. Not only did Murphy work for Moran, but he also knew Sherlock’s real identity. And the last time they had met, Murphy had picked him up and handed him over to Moran to be beaten, drugged and almost killed.

But as his eyes met the other man’s across the room, he hesitated. Murphy had not blown Sherlock’s cover. And he did seem to be a lot smarter than anyone else Sherlock had met in that line of work. Smarter, in fact, than anyone he had ever met that he wasn’t related to.

Murphy smiled and beckoned him over and, figuring there were plenty of witnesses around for nothing truly dangerous to happen, Sherlock walked over to join him at the bar.

“Did you ever get paid?” he asked as he sat down on the stool next to Murphy.

The man laughed and shook his head. “No. Moran kept blowing me off. And then he disappeared. But… You already know that part, right?”

Sherlock nodded and accepted the beer that Murphy handed him. “Are you still working for him?” he asked.

“Uhuh.” Murphy grinned. “The bastard hasn’t been back in the country as far as I know. Not since he had to run from your brother and his cavalry.”

They both laughed and drank to the memory.

“But what about his boss? Weren’t you really working for him anyway?”

“Nah,” Murphy said and shrugged. “I never even met the old fart. I just took my orders from Moran and kept my head down. Like you, but… better…”

“No way you were better than me,” Sherlock said, chuckling.

They joked and talked for almost an hour and Sherlock felt more relaxed than he had since the day he had first come across Moran’s name.

After Murphy left, Sherlock realised he had left a small slip of paper under his glass, with his phone number and initials. Sherlock had taken it, though he doubted he would ever use it. Murphy was no longer connected to Moran or his boss. He was of no use to him.

But then, when John had turned him down, he realised that Murphy would do just as well, maybe even better, for this particular job.

 

And now, here they were. Sherlock dressed as Stevenson again and Murphy looking quite sharp in tight low-cut jeans and an even tighter t-shirt. When they walked into the club, Murphy took Sherlock’s hand and the detective could practically feel how the attention of the entire room focused on them.

There was no denying they did look quite fetching together. Murphy had mastered the art of looking cute while still masculine, while Sherlock’s own appearance was designed to signal both trouble and availability. In short, they looked like living and breathing dream dates for most men in the place.

There was really only a slim chance that he would find any news of Moran here, but he had exhausted all other sources the previous day, and when Moran had brought him here once, some of the staff had seemed to know him pretty well. Sherlock suspected it had something to do with the escort service that was being run out of the back room, but could not prove anything.

So he was just here to listen, ask some questions and probably confirm that Moran had not been seen in London for months.

He was leaned over the bar, talking to one of the guys who sort of remembered him, when he felt a hand on his arse. Murphy’s. Caressing him in a rather possessive and slightly suggestive manner. He was about to push it away, when he realised that a lot of men were watching them. They had been the whole time, but the predatory hunger had changed to the detached admiration of someone looking at something pleasant that they know they will never have.

He relaxed, and once the bartender had moved on, turned to Murphy with a smile.

“Thanks,” he said. “I think it helped.”

“My pleasure,” Murphy said, and he gave his bum a squeeze that took Sherlock quite by surprise.

Many people were still watching them and Sherlock was slightly worried that someone might soon start wondering at him constantly talking to the staff. So he took Murphy’s hand and led him to the dance floor

Murphy proved, unsurprisingly, to be a good dancer. A slow song came on and, without really thinking, Sherlock let himself be pulled closer until they were dancing cheek to cheek. They moved well together and it was quite comfortable. He let Murphy lead him and closed his eyes.

The monotonous music and slow movements seemed to clear his mind and he let it go over the little he had learned over the past few days. The victim, though badly disfigured, had definitely been Jane Levington, and the killer could only be Moran’s boss. Sherlock had seen enough to never forget the mess this man could make when he lost his temper.

But why? That was the real question. That the boss had taken care of this himself, most likely meant that Moran had not returned. But then again, if Moran had not returned, why kill Levington? She had been in hiding for so long. He had, in fact, assumed that she was no longer in London. And in all that time, she had not gone to the authorities with what she knew. She had not even contacted Sherlock.

He was going over every detail of his only encounter with the woman when an unexpected sensation startled him. Hot and warm. And wet.

Murphy, it turned out, was sucking gently on his earlobe. Sherlock giggled. Not only did it tickle, but it also seemed like a very strange thing to do. It was not like it would be particularly visible to those who might still be watching them.

Then it dawned on him. He might not have made it completely clear that they were here to work. Could the other man perhaps be under the impression that this was an actual date? The hand on Sherlock’s arse might have been a test to see if they were on the same page and Sherlock, misunderstanding the gesture, had confirmed that he was interested too.

And now they had been dancing, their bodies pressed together for almost half an hour. Of course Murphy would think they were together. The ear-sucking was a bit peculiar. Wouldn’t a kiss be more natural at this point? Maybe it had seemed inconvenient, considering the position of their heads.

That, at least, was easy to test. Sherlock pulled his head back gently and turned it to face Murphy. And he was right. In 1.2 seconds, Murphy’s lips were on his in a surprisingly gentle kiss.

Moran had been all demand and hunger, and Sherlock had gotten more used to it than he had realised. This was tender but also passionate. Like there was a desire underneath, but Murphy was holding back. It reminded him of the way John had looked at Lt Morstan.

He considered pulling back and explaining the misunderstanding. But that might lead to a scene that would definitely blow their cover. And what was the harm really? Murphy had his eyes closed so he wouldn’t notice Sherlock scanning the room, checking if there were any of the staff he had not yet spoken to.

A moment later, Sherlock concluded that there was nothing more to do here and he closed his eyes too, focusing on the kiss for a while. Then he pulled back, took Murphy’s hand and whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”

The shorter man nodded eagerly. His cheeks were flushed and he seemed slightly out of breath. He was quite smitten, it seemed. This merited consideration. Could it be useful or should Sherlock get rid of him?

 

…

 

Murphy had wanted Sherlock to go home with him, but Sherlock had managed to excuse himself without offending the other man, and shortly after midnight, he was back at Baker Street, humming a tune that had got stuck in his mind, as he made himself a cup of tea.

“What are you so happy about?” John’s voice sounded from behind him, rough and a bit muffled.

"Happy?" Sherlock spun around and almost laughed at the sight that met him. John was in his pyjamas, his hair was sticking up on one side of his head and he seemed to be having problems keeping his eyes open. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," John said, frowning and running a hand through his hair. "Do you think you put on enough water for two cups?"

Sherlock looked at the kettle. "Yes, I believe so." He glanced back at John. He had been on a date, but he had come home alone. And he had been asleep for a while, so the date had not gone well. John seemed unsettled, but not frustrated. So his appearance and mood were not caused by the date going sour. Sherlock sighed. "Is the war haunting you again?"

John shrugged. "Don't really want to talk about it."

Sherlock tried to hide his relief. "How was your date?" he asked, turning to the cupboard to get two cups.

John shrugged again. "Certainly not as good as yours. I take it you found something of importance for the case?"

Sherlock nodded as he poured the tea. "Moran's still not in London. And probably not even in the country." He handed John one of the cups.

John nodded, sipping the too hot tea gratefully. "And?"

"I've got a date on Friday," Sherlock muttered into his cup before taking a large sip and burning his tongue.

John almost choked, even though he wasn't drinking. "A date? As in, what normal people call a date?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I guess so. A light dinner and drinks."

"With... someone?" John asked, his eyes widening.

"Well, it wouldn't be a date if I went on my own, would it?" Sherlock said. He couldn't help but smile a little at John's reaction.

"I thought you didn't... I mean... Sorry," John blushed, quickly taking another sip of tea.

Sherlock chuckled. "I do. Not much, but I am capable, you know." He winked and walked past John into the living room to sit down in his chair.

John stayed in the kitchen a little longer, and when he joined Sherlock, he was still blushing. "So, ehm... Want to tell anything about... them?"

Sherlock chuckled. He had not expected this part to be fun. He had been about to tell John that it was, obviously, just for the case, but now he couldn't resist having some fun with him. Just a bit. "He... is an old acquaintance that I met again yesterday. His name is James and he works in private security." Not a complete lie, Sherlock thought, as he finished his tea.

John smiled. "Well, good luck."

Sherlock nodded, deciding to keep the game going a little longer.

John emptied his tea. "Guess I better go try to sleep again. Got a job in the morning."

"Yes," Sherlock said, already lost in thoughts about what course to take on the case. He had to find Moran's boss. Or at least find out who the man actually was.

"Alright." John smirked a little. "I'll leave you to your thoughts. Goodnight."

 

…

 

"Morning... Why are you up so early?" John asked, sounding grumpy as he entered the kitchen to make breakfast.

"I've got a case," Sherlock said. "Why sleep more than I have to?" He studied John as he worked, making a mental note of his puffy eyes, tousled hair and deep frown lines. "More nightmares?" he asked.

John shrugged. "Was to be expected, I guess. Starting a new job and everything. And the evening didn't exactly provide much relaxation."

"Yes, that was quite unfortunate. You must be worried it will cause awkwardness when you are working together," Sherlock mused, studying John's reactions.

John just huffed and sipped his tea.

Sherlock smiled and went to get a cup for himself. "I suppose it could be worse," he said, keeping an eye on John. "If you had actually... succeeded with her. I mean, if you had had intercourse last night, wouldn't that be even more awkward?"

"Could you, by any chance, shut up for a bit?"

"Oh... of course," Sherlock hid his smile behind his cup. John really was a treasure trove of human emotions and hangups. He could learn so much from studying him.

Perhaps it was a good thing that John had gotten a job. Otherwise he'd never get any real work done.

"What are your plans for the day, then?" John asked as he smeared jam on his toast.

Sherlock stretched. "I'll mainly be online," he said. "Looking for incidents abroad that might be connected to Moran."

John nodded. "Text me if you're about to do something dangerous, okay?"

"Like click a 'Yes, I am over 18’ button?" Sherlock asked, suppressing a giggle.

John rolled his eyes. "So I know when I have to come fish your remaining bits out of the Thames."

"I will let you know when I am about to go in," Sherlock said, nodding.

"Thanks." John sighed and got up. "See you tonight, then."

Sherlock nodded and pulled his laptop over. He hardly noticed John leave, as he had come across some promising triple homicide in Athens. Half an hour later he had, however, determined that it was not connected to Moran, but to an Albanian gang whose attempt to expand had gone wrong. He was about to go make himself another cup of tea when he heard steps coming up the stairs.

"Good morning, Mrs Hudson," he said, smiling and holding up his empty cup. "Perfect timing. As always."

Mrs Hudson sighed. "Not your housekeeper, Sherlock!"

"I know," Sherlock said, smiling brightly as he held out the cup to her.

She shook her head and took the cup to the kitchen. "I saw John leave," she said. "It's not his habit to go out this early, so I hope you didn't have words again?"

"He's gotten a job," Sherlock said. "He is a doctor, you know." He started a new search and leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment.

"Of course," she smiled. "So everything is alright between you two?"

"Yes, of course it is." Sherlock said, opening one eye to glance at her. "He's my friend."

"Oh, I know how it is," she winked. "I'm so glad to have seen the day you brought someone home!"

Sherlock frowned. "Are you implying something?" he asked.

"Oh, you don't have to be afraid," Mrs Hudson said, handing him his cup. "You know I only wish you the best. And Mrs Turner even has married ones, I’m not judging!"

"John and I are just friends," he said as he took the cup. "He is far too fond of women for us to be anything more. And I am too fond of my work."

She frowned. "But..." Then she stopped talking and shook her head. "Alright."

"Besides, you know this arrangement is only temporary. Now that John has found a job, he'll be finding a place of his own soon." Sherlock sipped his tea and focused back on the screen, where a series of disappearances in Tokyo had caught his attention.

Mrs Hudson sighed. "It will be a shame, if he really does that. You're different since he’s moved in, you know."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but did not comment. He had to agree. He was different. John's constant fussing had forced him to change some of his methods, being more 'careful' as John called it. He would have thought it would have seemed duller working like this, but it had proved not only safer, but more efficient, and therefore exciting in its own way.

He was never going to admit this to anyone, of course, but he too regretted John's wish to move out.

Mrs Hudson seemed to see something change in his expression and she gently patted his shoulder. "I'll let you work," she said, before leaving.

Sherlock nodded in thanks and forced his mind back on track.

 

Shortly before noon, he had gotten nowhere and was about to start a potentially dangerous experiment, simply so he could not text John about it, when he got the best kind of text. Lestrade wanted him down at the Yard. A case!

Sherlock sprinted to his room to get changed and was down on the street, hailing a cab, five minutes later.

 

...

 

"So," he said, as he strode into Lestrade's office, loosening his scarf. "What have you got for me? Please tell me it's a good one, seeing as how you've called me off another, quite urgent case."

"To be honest, I'm not sure it will be worth it," Lestrade said with a sigh. "It seemed pretty obvious to me, but I got orders from above to investigate every inch of it because they expect there is more to it."

"Above?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, as he prepared to turn around and walk right out the door again. "My brother?"

"I'm honestly not sure. At least I haven't heard from him directly," Lestrade said. "But they're important, so I'd like you to go have a look. It's only a little outside London."

"Outside of London?" Sherlock's interest was slightly piqued. It wasn't often Lestrade gave him jobs outside of the city.

Lestrade nodded. "You can drive with me. If you take the case, that is. So I can give you more details on the way."

"As long as it's not in a police car," Sherlock said, frowning slightly.

 

…

 

It did indeed seem pretty obvious. A young, newly wed couple had been on their way home from their honeymoon in Vietnam. They had landed in Stansted the previous day at noon, and left by car, but never arrived at their home in London. A search had been started that morning and the car, with the deceased couple inside, had been found in a lake a few miles south of Chelmsford.

"So," Sherlock said, frowning. "They got into a fight and ran off the road. Or she got a bit too friendly and distracted him. Why do you need me for this?"

Lestrade shrugged. "I thought the same. And yet we have orders to give it priority. I don't understand."

Sherlock nodded. That in itself was significant. "Do you have anything on them?" he asked. He might as well spend the drive reading if the DI had nothing useful to tell him.

"I popped the files into your door compartment," Lestrade nodded, his eyes on the road. "It's not much. Their names, details about their trip, but nothing really useful, in my opinion. They don't have any criminal history."

"Of course they don't," Sherlock said, picking up the files and flicking through them.

Perfectly ordinary people, it seemed. Despairingly so. Mid-twenties, both with a steady yet low-profile job. Just bought a small house in Havering, had a dog and played badminton every Sunday with friends.

They had gotten married a fortnight ago and had spent the honeymoon in Vietnam, primarily at the poolside according to the e-mails they had sent to their parents and her sister, who had been taking care of their dog.

Madeleine and Charles Forrestal had, in other words, no enemies, no vices and had no access to secrets or items that anyone would kill for.

The car had been new, a wedding present from his parents and, so far, forensics had found nothing wrong with it. The autopsy reports would not be ready before late in the evening or maybe even the following day.

Sherlock sighed. "The only thing about these deaths that indicates that something criminal has happened, is that they should not have happened. These two had no reason to fight, they were too dull to try any kind of fornication or even foreplay while driving and no one would wish them any harm. The bridge where the accident happened is wide and has a straight road on each side, so it could not have taken the driver by surprise, and tire tracks show that there were no other vehicles involved." He shook the files, as if for emphasis. "So what happened? What?"

"That's why we brought you in," Lestrade said as he parked the car.

"Of course," Sherlock said as he got out of the car and looked around.

 

After an hour at the scene, Sherlock had gotten no further. There was absolutely no logical explanation for the car going over the side of that bridge. He had even gone through their soaked suitcases and found nothing but what could be expected. Dirty clothes and horrible souvenirs.

He turned to Lestrade. "Where are the bodies?" he asked.

"Back in Bart’s morgue. They're examining them, but we haven't gotten the reports yet," Lestrade answered.

"Then let me see for myself," Sherlock said, slightly annoyed at having come this far for nothing.

Lestrade nodded. "I'm sorry. I just don't know where to start looking for this. Or what I'm looking for."

"You'll know when you see it," Sherlock said, heading back to the car.

 

...

 

Lestrade brought him straight to the morgue. "I'll join you in a bit after I’ve done the paperwork, so you're allowed to have a look," he said as he dropped Sherlock off.

Sherlock strode through the door and pushed Molly aside to get at the two bodies she had been examining. "Tell me what you've done so far," he said as he shrugged off his coat.

"Oh, hi, Sherlock," Molly said. "Er - these two? There - there are no traces of a fight before they had the accident, and we're running tests for poison, but-"

"I see," Sherlock said, beginning his examination of the woman's feet.

"All rather weird, isn't it?" Molly said with a nervous little laugh.

Sherlock glanced at her. "The accident? Or that it's being investigated?" he asked.

"Well, one moment they're coming back from their honeymoon, starting a new part of their life, and the next they're drowning. At least I guess they were happy when they died. Well, except that they died, of course." Molly blushed and turned to the man's corpse to open his mouth.

"So you think being happy makes a difference?" Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. "I would have thought that would be considered more cruel. If they had been miserable, they might have welcomed death." He considered it for a moment. "But yes... I see your point. This way, they were spared the disappointment of seeing all their dreams fail."

"Ehm... Something like that," Molly answered, frowning a little.

"Then I suppose their deaths could be considered merciful," Sherlock said, focusing on the palm of the woman's left hand. He frowned. "Do you have their clothes?" he asked.

"Yes, I'll get them for you," Molly said quickly.

Sherlock continued examining the woman, focusing on the right side of her upper body and face.

"There you go," Molly said as she returned and laid the clothes on a table.

Sherlock turned from the body and after a quick search pulled out a wad of soggy, rather creased papers. Picking the spot on the table with the best light, he began smoothing them out carefully.

"I knew it," he said. "They were in seats d and e. Why was she sitting by a window, then? They must have changed seats on the plane." He whirled on Molly. "Get me Lestrade. Now," he ordered.

She nodded and hurried off.

Sherlock's phone chimed.

'Where are you?'

He frowned at the text. Wasn't John supposed to be at work? Then he noticed the time and realised it was a lot later than he thought.

'At the morgue,' he replied before returning to the bodies. It would take John a while to get here, so he might as well continue his examination.

"Okay, what have you got for me?" Lestrade asked as he entered.

"They changed seats on the flight. I need to know when and why. And with whom," Sherlock snapped as he opened the left eyelid of the man, then the right, examining the iris.

"Ah... I'll return to the office to find out, then," Lestrade said. He almost bumped into John as he went back on his steps.

"See this," Sherlock said, not looking up. "Does this seem right to you?"

John frowned in confusion, but stepped closer.

They checked the eyes and mouth of the man, and then the woman. It soon became obvious. The man had been poisoned. Excessively so. Though drowning had been the cause of death, he would not have lived more than a few minutes longer, had their car not ended up in the lake. He had lost consciousness when they were halfway across the bridge, and despite his wife's attempt to stop the car, it had gone through the railing and into the water.

The wife had minor traces of poison too, but only on her lips and tongue. It would not have been enough to harm her beyond a massive headache.

Now the bigger question posed itself: Why?

"Do you think this'll be solved before Friday evening?" John asked softly as Sherlock was impatiently drumming his fingers on the table, staring in thought at the corpses, which were now covered again.

"I suspect it will be solved by tonight, if I can get the information from the plane," Sherlock said, turning from the bodies and putting his scarf back on.

John nodded. "Good. Do you already know where you're going to go?"

"Well, maybe the airport, but I'm hoping that won't be necessary." Sherlock went over to the door and looked out into the corridor to see if Molly was on her way. He still needed the reports to determine exactly what kind of poison was used and how much, though he was pretty sure the dose had been at least 40% larger than needed to kill Forrestal.

"What?" John chuckled. "I meant for your date. I guess you're not taking him to the airport... yet." He grinned.

Sherlock frowned. What was John talking about? Then it dawned on him. "Oh," he said. "I don't know. Maybe Angelo's," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "Is it important?"

John looked uncomfortable for a moment. "I was just... curious. Do you... often take your dates to Angelo's?"

Sherlock studied him. Something was bothering John. But what? His own date had gone badly. Perhaps he was trying to get ideas for ways to avoid such failure in the future. But Sherlock was hardly the one to ask about such matters.

"Of course not. I don't date," he answered.

"Looks like you do now." John had found back a little smile. "With James."

"Oh, I see." Sherlock smiled. John was just being curious. Of course he was. Sherlock himself had been teasing him on the subject. "Technically, I suppose you're right, but it's not really a date in the sense that most people would think."

John raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yes, of course." What was with John today? Was he always this slow? "It's for the case. Well, not this case, but the other one. About Moran and his boss.”

John stared at him.

"Got it! It is indeed poison!" Molly waved the papers in her hand as she came in.

"Wait..." John said. "You can’t be dating one of Moran's men?"

"Uhm..." Sherlock said, instantly more focused on the papers in Molly's hand. "Yes?"

Molly's eyes went from Sherlock to John and back. She opened her mouth and closed it again.

"You are out of your mind. Completely," John said, shaking his head and walking to the door.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation before snatching the papers out of Molly's hand and following him.

 

…

 

"Sherlock, hi. We've found the name of the man the Forrestals changed places with," Lestrade's voice sounded over the phone.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. "Who is he?" he asked.

"Well... There's a bit of a problem. Somehow, he has heard that you are involved in the case. And he doesn't want to talk to you. I'm not even allowed to tell you his name."

Sherlock held the phone out and stared at it for a moment, his brow knitted in thought. Then he lodged it between his cheek and shoulder so he could reach for his laptop and open it.

"So they exchanged seats with whomever told us to investigate this... Will he be willing to let me interview him? Without revealing his identity, of course."

"I can ask him," Lestrade said hesitantly.

"If it will help, tell him he will not be talking to me directly. I can instruct John to do the interview."

John, who was sitting in his chair, looked up from his cup of tea. "What interview?" he mouthed.

"Right," Lestrade answered. "I'll let you know if he wants to make an appointment, okay?"

"Yes," Sherlock said and hung up. Then he turned to John, smiling. "This case is proving to be more interesting than I initially thought," he said. "I am going to need you to interview Sir Bellinger. Find out why he exchanged seats with the Forrestals and why someone would want to kill him."

"Ah," John said. "Why won't you do it?"

"He won't talk to me," Sherlock said. "My brother has probably warned him that I'd deduce too much, were I to meet with him."

"Ah. So you need me."

Something in John's tone made Sherlock pause. "Of course I do," he said, wondering why John felt such a need to state the obvious.

John let out a small huff.

"What?" Sherlock asked. "Did I say something wrong?"

John sighed. "I'm just still... I can't believe that you're taking a risk like that date again."

Sherlock sighed. So that was what was bothering John. "How can it be a risk? I am taking the man to dinner. He does not even work for Moran anymore and even when he did, he did not blow my cover."

"But you're expecting him to give information! If he can do that, there's a chance Moran's men are following him to silence him, and then you're in the middle of all that. Don't you see what danger you are getting yourself into?" John emptied his tea and put down the cup a little more forcefully than necessary.

"No more danger than I am in every time I walk out the door. Moran has as much reason to want to kill me as he does with Murphy." Sherlock shrugged. "I'm as much danger to him as he is to me. And yet... here we are." He grinned as he opened a document and began typing the questions he'd want John to ask.

John was quiet for a while before he spoke again. "I think it would be safer if someone would keep an eye on you. On the date. Just in case... Murphy isn't quite who he says he is." He shifted in his chair.

Sherlock almost giggled. "Are you saying we need a chaperone?"

"No... Not like that." John looked annoyed. "I could just watch out for... you know, unusual things to happen. Dangerous things. I wouldn't... meddle..."

Meddle? In what? Sherlock was about to dismiss the notion when he realised an extra pair of eyes and ears could be an advantage. Not that John was likely to catch something Sherlock wouldn't, but he could only focus on so many things at once.

"You have a point. But Murphy will probably wonder why you're there."

"He doesn't have to know," John said. "I'll just be on another table. So I can have a view on the parts of the restaurant that you can't see. Maybe bring a date myself."

Sherlock considered it. It couldn't do any harm and if it would make John stop brooding... "Okay. You can come."


	3. Chapter 3

Sebastian pulled his coat more tightly around himself as he got up. This hadn’t gone according to plan. And it certainly wasn’t his usual style. But all these months of being cut off, of being isolated from the rest of the world, had  taken their toll. And he had snapped.

For the first time, he had understood his employer. No wonder that this happened to him all the time, with everything he had on his mind. Yet, right now, it wasn’t work pressure that drove Sebastian crazy. There weren’t any jobs to do here. He just had to hide. To wait. To let boring day follow boring day. There wasn’t even much daylight, so he would sit in the dark in an uninhabited slum and drink himself warm. And that was it. He couldn’t risk getting in touch with his old life. If it wouldn’t ruin his boss’s long-term plans completely, he would have jumped at a chance to serve this time in prison. At least something happened there.

Around noon, he had gone out for a walk. A cheerful young man had almost bumped into him as he left a  cafe , and they had started talking. Sebastian had brought him to an alley and so far everything had been okay. It could have been just a bit of fun. But then it had struck him why this man had caught his attention. When he was hovering over his face and dark, almost black eyes looked up at him, pupils blown wide. He looked like Moriarty in nothing else than those eyes, but it had been enough. Suddenly all the anger of the last months had  washed over Sebastian, had intensified, and he had started beating the young man before he even knew he had moved. Even when the man fell to the ground, he kept hitting him . E ven harder . H ard enough to make his right hand hurt even now. He had been dead long before he gave him those last few kicks in his groin . I n his ribs. His body had been completely broken.

Sebastian stood there, staring at what he had done, and could only think, ‘shit’. He was in trouble.

 

Fortunately no one had been around. He could drag the body behind some containers, and the snow of the last few days had  melted enough not to  leave too obvious traces. But of course he needed to do more cleaning up. This man wasn’t some lost tramp. He would be missed. And by that time, either all clues that led to Sebastian would have to be gone, or he himself should have disappeared. Neither option sounded like he could bring it to a successful end on his own. And thus he took his phone from his pocket and called the number he was only allowed to call in absolute emergencies.

“Boss, I’ve got a problem.”

The answer was a sigh and a single word: "Obviously."

"I've got a corpse here. And I should get rid of him. Also, I want to come home."

"What kind of corpse?" Moriarty asked, and then added: "If you say: a dead one, I will personally skin you."

"A young man," Sebastian answered tonelessly. "He had nice eyes."

"So you fucked him to death?" Moriarty asked, a hint of cold mirth in his voice. "Or did he choke on your cock?"

"It didn't even come to that. I guess that's the most disappointing part. I just... started beating him."

"Of course. Why bother with foreplay when you can go straight to the main event. You always did like the pain more than the pleasure, isn't that right?"

"Can we get to the point?" Sebastian asked.

"Like you did? Of course. Tell me where the body is. Precisely. Then get your things and be sure to be on the boat that leaves in two hours."

"Bringing me home?" Sebastian asked, the hope more obvious in his voice than he cared for.

"Relocating you. The smoke from your last London adventure hasn't quite cleared yet. Though we're getting there."

"Right." He sighed and gave his boss the details.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not despair about the shortness of this chapter. It certainly doesn’t mean that we are out of inspiration for this story; in fact, we’ve already got many chapters waiting. But because of the way we work with different points of view in different chapters, there isn’t exactly a fixed length. Next week there will once again be a nice long piece!


	4. Chapter 4

Even though Sherlock was probably right that dinner in a public place couldn’t hold that much of a risk, John kept feeling uncomfortable about the idea of the date. He couldn’t quite say  why , but he  had been dreading Friday evening all week, even when he was at work and supposed to be focused.  As he hadn’t been successful at asking someone out, he ended up booking a table just for himself. When the night in question was finally there, he left half an hour early to Angelo’s, which made Sherlock ridicule him, but at least he wouldn’t miss anything. If  someone wanted to set up a trap for Sherlock, he would be in time to notice. But he knew that that was just what he told himself in his paranoia after everything Moran had done. There wasn’t much they could do there, and even then , Angelo would always keep an eye out for Sherlock.

After about 20 minutes, a short, dark-haired man entered the restaurant.  The way he smile d at Angelo showed genuine mirth, though there was also a hint of shyness in it. Not exactly the kind of man John expected to have worked for Moran, and yet he was shown to the table Sherlock had reserved. The one where  John and Sherlock had sat together the week before.

But the man shook his head and said something, and then Angelo nodded and brought him to an even smaller table right at the back. Behind John. He rolled his eyes and looked  over his right shoulder . If he  moved to the chair on the other side of his table, he could still see them, and Murphy was checking his phone, so probably he wouldn’t notice , if  John was quick about it. He smiled at Angelo, who passed him just as he had gotten up,  then quickly moved his glass a little and sat down again. It wasn’t ideal, because he had to look past a few other tables, but it was still safe enough. Good.

Next to him, the door opened again, and this time it was Sherlock. John glanced at him for a moment, but Sherlock didn’t even look at him, instead walking straight to the table at the back, as if that was exactly where he was expecting to find Murphy. As soon as Murphy saw Sherlock, he beamed at him and stood up. He took Sherlock’s offered hand, but used it to pull him in for a quick kiss. It was clear that it wasn’t the first time that had happened. Still, Sherlock seemed a bit taken aback, but smiled as he sat down.

They talked and laughed as they ordered, and Angelo was being pleasant and exuberant, actually shaking Murphy's hand before he went off to get their wine. Murphy was talking a lot, but it did not seem to bother Sherlock. He was smiling and nodding. At one point, it even looked like he was blushing. It made John raise his eyebrows over his own plate of pasta. If the man ever got bored of being a consulting detective, he could always become an actor. 

When the wine arrived, Murphy poured them both a large glass and offered a toast that made Sherlock snort.

A group of people entered the restaurant and it took a while before they had all sat down at the largest table between John’s and the two men, so John’s view was blocked. When they were finally seated, he saw that somehow, Murphy had gotten hold of Sherlock's hand. In fact, he was not just holding it, right there in the middle of the table. He seemed to be playing with the long fingers, running his own thumb over the tips. He was smiling at Sherlock in a rather unsettling way, as if Sherlock was the only interesting thing in the whole world, making the caresses even more intimate. Almost erotic. Sherlock was looking down at their hands, smiling a little.

Then the food was brought in and they let go of each other. While they ate, conversation seemed to be more toned down and casual. John wondered if Sherlock was finally getting to the business of questioning  Murphy about Moran. He wished he could hear anything of what they said, but the group between them was making too much noise , and Sherlock and Murphy seemed to talk rather quietly. At one point, Murphy seemed to go tense and he looked away, which made Sherlock frown and then speak quickly. As if he was apologising.  Sherlock . But then of course, he might need more information and it fit the role he was playing.

Sherlock only ate half of his portion and then sat for a while, pushing a piece of meat about with his fork. Murphy, on the other hand, seemed to have quite an appetite and cleaned his plate completely. Then, when Angelo had taken the plates and asked them about dessert - something John could hear even over the group’s talking, because the man always spoke so loudly - Murphy suddenly stood up. But instead of going to the loo or going out to smoke, he moved his chair to the side of the table, so that he was sitting much closer to Sherlock. Too close.

Sherlock seemed surprised by this, but did not protest, and soon Murphy was holding his hand again, while pouring them both more wine. It seemed to be a new bottle, unless they had drunk surprisingly little with their meal. John hadn’t really paid attention to it until now.

Angelo laughed when he returned with the desserts and saw them sitting like that. And then he  ruffled Murphy's hair. Like he was accepting his favourite nephew’s date. After he had left, they tasted their desserts and then Murphy offered Sherlock some of his. He actually fed him a spoon of it and Sherlock let it all happen . Apparently,  the detective got some chocolate on his lip, or at least Murphy pretended that he did and wiped it off with his thumb. But did he really have to do that so slowly while looking straight into Sherlock’s eyes? John shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Sherlock put down his small fork and after a moment's hesitation leaned over and kissed Murphy. Not just a quick peck like at the start of the date, but a soft, lingering kiss. John averted his eyes. Had  Sherlock forgotten  that John was watching? Had he not wanted to admit that it was indeed an actual date? Or was he just that good an actor?

Murphy reached up to cup Sherlock's cheek and slowly took charge of the kiss, deepening it. It lasted an entire minute. A minute and a half. Then some loud laughter from some  inebriated men at another table distracted them and they broke apart, smiling and slightly flushed.

John was relieved that Angelo arrived at his table just  then ,  to ask if he needed something else , and he could order another glass of water.

Once again, his view was blocked as the large group o f people was leaving. It was getting rather late and there were only a few tables left. John hoped it wouldn’t become too obvious that he was watching the  two men , as he had been here for longer, and all on his own. Not that he was doing much watching right now. He really didn’t need to see them snog some more. Even then, Murphy was probably distracted enough not to notice John.

John really, really wanted to leave. He had no desire at all to keep watching Sherlock Holmes on a frankly ordinary date. It was none of his business and it was incredibly awkward. But he couldn’t leave. If this was just Murphy playing it well, of course he would make it  all seem  normal until everyone had long given up on paying attention. And then he would strike. Granted, John was seriously starting to doubt that Murphy was a threat. But he wouldn’t risk it and leave his friend. So he had to sit this out.

The next time they broke apart, they spoke for a brief moment and then Sherlock signalled Angelo for the check. The large man smiled and shook his head, indicating with a wink and a wave at the door that they should just get going.

They got to the door before John could even catch Angelo’s attention to ask for  his bill. Quickly, he threw some money on the table, and then waited a moment until the two men were out, so he could follow them.

John was glad they just walked along the street. It would have been awkward if they had taken a cab, even if he could immediately have gotten one himself to follow them. But now they were just walking at a  calm pace, holding hands and now and then leaning into each other. John just strolled after them, once again pondering  if he shouldn’t just go home. Not that he had to make an effort to be subtle. He doubted that they would notice  anyone but each other anyway.

 

They stopped at an old cinema, and for a moment John wondered if there were even any films starting at this hour of the night, but the screen inside told him that indeed there were a few. He waited awkwardly at the entrance, acting interested in one of the posters, until Murphy had bought them their tickets and  he and Sherlock went further  in .

“Er, good evening,”  John greeted the girl in the ticket box, only now realising that he had no idea which film they would have chosen. “Erm, I’m just looking for something nice and relaxing to watch. How about what those two men chose? They  look like they have good taste.”

The girl frowned a little. “Are you sure, sir? If you really want relaxing…”

“Yes, yes, it’s fine,” John said, quickly handing her the money for a ticket.

 

It wasn’t hard to find Sherlock and his date in the half-dark theatre. For a start, there was only one other couple sitting somewhere in front, and they were actually watching the trailers. Unlike Sherlock and Murphy.

By the time John sat down in the back, the lights were already dimming and Murphy was almost sitting in Sherlock’s lap. They didn’t even look up as the title appeared in large letters on the screen, as they were far too busy. John tried not to feel disgusted and frowned as he read  the words ; he had no idea what  they meant and didn’t even recognise the language of the film.

The  two men managed to keep their lips locked together for almost twenty minutes. Then, giggling a lot, they seemed to focus on the film, Murphy resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

John couldn’t keep himself interested in the film for long. He didn’t understand a word of it and something seemed off with the subtitles. He wondered how Sherlock could stand it. He was always so easily bored, but now he seemed absolutely fine just resting against Murphy. Actually  cuddling . He must be seething under the surface. John  simply  couldn’t believe he was really enjoying it, however excellent his performance was.

The film’s soundtrack, combined with the boredom, brought him even more on edge. In fact he felt angry. Inexplicably so. Part of him just wanted to push Murphy away and drag Sherlock home so they could stop this ridiculous show.

Eventually , the fatigue of the week’s work and the late hour caught up with him, and despite his uncomfortable thoughts, he must have drifted off. Next he knew, the end credits were rolling. And Sherlock and Murphy were gone.

 

…

 

“You could have texted me! When you left! I almost called the police, but here you fucking are as if nothing happened!” John shouted as he entered the flat and found Sherlock lying on the sofa, his eyes closed and a small smile playing around his lips.

Sherlock opened his eyes calmly, though his smile faded a bit. He glanced over at John. “Call the police? Why?”

“Because you just disappeared!”

“I didn’t disappear. I went home.” Sherlock sat up and stretched.

“Yes, but…” Had Sherlock seen he had fallen asleep? It had been his own fault, really, but the frustration of the whole evening was clouding John’s judgement. “You should have noticed I wasn’t following.”

“But you were sleeping,” Sherlock said. “What would you have me do? Return to the theatre after I’d put James in a cab? I was closer to home by then. And it’s not like you didn’t know where to look for me.”

“I wasn’t  supposed to have fallen asleep,” John muttered. “And what was all that about with  James ? I thought it wasn’t a real date?”

Sherlock chuckled. “It wasn’t. But… Something happened.”

“Yeah, that was clear.” John huffed and sat down in his chair. “So what exactly happened? You discovered the wonderful world of emotions?”

“No. Not really. It’s just….” He laughed again. “Well, James is a really skilled kisser and if I let him carry on for just a bit he’ll trigger endorphins and they are really good for clear thinking.” He looked John straight in the eyes as he continued. “It’s like being high. Without all the bad stuff.”

John raised an eyebrow. “I guess that was the most reassuring comparison you could think of.”

“It’s the most accurate,”  Sherlock shrugged . “So,  once I had determined that James really did not have any new information, I figured I might as well take advantage of his other qualities.”

“Yeah, I saw. And I wish I hadn’t,” John said, frowning.

“You were the one who insisted on following us,” Sherlock said with  another shrug, before heading for the kitchen.

John sighed. “That really doesn’t mean I enjoyed it.”

“Then why did you persist?” Sherlock asked, glancing at him over his shoulder. “Once it had become clear that the terms had changed, you could just have gone home. And you certainly didn’t need to follow us to the cinema.”

John suppressed a grunt, not allowing himself to get embarrassed. “You can say all that now it went fine. But it could have been a trap. Making you comfortable and then attacking. I wouldn’t have forgiven myself if I had run off then.”

“I think I could have handled him. Don’t you?” Sherlock asked and winked.

“ Really , Sherlock,” John said, looking away.

“Really,” Sherlock said as he walked past John and disappeared down the hallway leading to his bedroom.

 

…

 

The next morning, John still felt slightly uncomfortable around Sherlock. They didn’t talk much, until about an hour before John was expected at Scotland Yard for his appointment with Sir  Bellinger . Then John took out the list of questions Sherlock had made and frowned.

“Does it even matter what his favourite cocktail is?”

Sherlock gave him a scathing look. "Everything on there matters," he said.

"Yes, but what can you possibly deduce from that?" John asked.

"What he likes to drink, obviously," Sherlock answered with a smirk.

John snorted.

Sherlock chuckled. "Anything else you need to know, or do you think you can handle it?"

"I guess I can handle it," John sighed, straightening his tie. "Maybe I should go. Better not be late."

"No," Sherlock said, just as his phone buzzed. He read the text, smiled and did a sort of wave in John's direction. "Off you go."

 

…

 

Sir Bellinger was nothing like John had expected. Where  everything abou t the house he and Lestrade arrived at screamed “rich diplomat”, the tall man who opened the door looked more like a handsome farmer from some period piece, with his  deep tan, sun-bleached hair and strong posture. And yet, he was wearing a suit with an air of comfort as if he were born in it.

He offered them tea and waved for them to take a seat on the huge leather sofa, and for a moment John couldn’t quite remember what the first question on Sherlock’s list had been.

“Er, right,” he said as Bellinger’s green eyes were resting on him expectantly. “Well, I guess the question is simple. Why exactly did you insist that the Forrestals’ deaths were investigated? How could you know something was off?”

"Because I met them," he said, frowning a little. "Back in Da Nang. Our plane was delayed and we ended up having lunch at the same airport café. They were such a lovely couple. Level-headed, pleasant and very much in love. For them to die like that... It just didn't make sense."

John nodded. "And you changed places with them in the plane, right?"

He looked startled for a moment. "Yes... How did you know?"

"We found their tickets. But... Well, Sherlock deduced that Mrs Forrestal must have sat by the window," John explained.

He laughed. "Oh yes, of course... The great detective." He looked around. "The very reason why I could not let him into my home. Too many secrets he might guess."

John smiled.

"Did they propose the switch, or you?" Lestrade asked.

"Oh, I did,"  Bellinger said, smiling at the memory. "She was so disappointed that she didn't get a window seat. And I  didn't really care, since I'd be working throughout the flight."

"That's nice," John said. "Can you say anything about what you're working on right now? Sherlock asked, but of course we understand if you can't say anything about it.  But i t might help us."

Bellinger sighed. "I can't. Sorry. Or rather... I could, but then you'd have to be locked up. For ever."

John smiled a little. "Better not, then. Well, he gave me some weird questions too, so I guess we'd better get those over with."

Fortunately Bellinger took the questions with good humour, and after they had joked about what Sherlock could possibly make of it, they said goodbye. John was in a better mood than he had been in a while when he returned home.

“Oh, experiment?” he asked when he saw Sherlock sitting in the kitchen.

Sherlock looked up from his phone. "What...? Oh... no... I was just thinking." He said and then glanced one more time at his phone before putting it in his pocket.

"Okay. I guess you want to hear everything Bellinger said?"

Sherlock shrugged. "That won't be necessary," he said. "I've already gotten in touch with the airline to find out who served drinks to the Forrestals when they were over France."

John frowned. "Then why did I even have to do the interview?"

"So I could get the information I needed, obviously," Sherlock said. "Thank you. You did very well." He grinned at John. "You really liked him, didn't you?"

John stared at him. "What? How...?"

Sherlock got up and walked over to him, reaching behind his neck and sticking two fingers down the collar of his jumper. A moment later he pulled them out and showed John the small device that had been attached there since  that morning, when John had left the jumper in his chair while he went to brush his teeth.

"I must say it was quite interesting to witness the Watson charm, even if I could only hear you. A less... worldly man than Bellinger might have thought he was being hit on."

"You  bugged me without telling me?" John sputtered.

"Of course," Sherlock said, carrying the device over to his desk and putting it in a drawer. "If I had told you, you'd have given it away. You're not exactly good at pretending."

"I wouldn't have!" John had to take a deep breath to avoid punching Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded. "I know," he said.

"So what did it all tell you? Or did you really just make me ask those things to hear me being ridiculous?"

"Well, he confirmed my theory, obviously. Weren’t you paying attention?” Sherlock asked, looking slightly confused.

"Sherlock, I swear to you, don't give me this shit now because I'm close enough to punching you as it is."

"What? What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, confused, as he took a step backwards.

"Well, let me explain it to you. You're being an insufferably annoying  prick . Now tell me about the case." John glared up at him.

"Oh... " Sherlock relaxed visibly. "We know Charles Forrestal was poisoned. And that no one had any reason to want to harm him or his wife. But they exchanged seats with Bellinger. So someone, who did not know what he looked like, must have mistaken Forrestal for Bellinger and given him the poison. We'll probably never know why someone would want to kill Bellinger, but I intend to find out who."

"It's probably something to do with his job," John shrugged. "So find the one who served the poison and ask them who paid them to do it. I see."

"Yes." Sherlock smiled. "See? It wasn't that hard."

John rolled his eyes and went to make tea. "Any word on the Levington case?" he asked from the kitchen.

Sherlock shook his head. "I have some ideas, but no way of confirming them yet.”

John poured them both a cup of tea and sat down. "So are you going to see James again?" he asked after a while.

Sherlock nodded. "I think so. Being with him is quite pleasant. And he helps me think."

"So it's not about information anymore." John smiled a little.

"No, didn't I tell you?" Sherlock said, smiling too, as his eyes grew distant. "Kissing him helps me concentrate. Think clearly."

"Yeah, okay, I don't need... details," John said quickly, holding up a hand.

"What details?" Sherlock asked, smirking. "You've seen it all."

 

…

 

On Monday, John spent his lunch break with a nice nurse he hadn’t met yet the week before, and they agreed to go have a drink after their shift. It was nice, just friendly with a hint of possibility. He was still smiling at a joke she had made when he got home - where it looked like a small bomb had exploded.

Sherlock was standing in the kitchen, clutching a piece of rubber hose that he seemed to have torn from the elaborate setup of his latest experiment, that had been sitting forgotten on the counter since Levington's body had been found. He held the hose with both hands, pulling on it as if trying to break it in half. "I am going to kill him," he hissed through clenched teeth.

John frowned. "O-kay... Who now? Mycroft?" he guessed.

"Of course," Sherlock said, tossing the hose across the room, hitting the wall,  much too close to John's head. "This time I think he actually did it specifically to piss me off."

"Wow, calm down," John said, stepping closer. "What happened?"

"What usually happens?" Sherlock barked. "I had the thing practically solved and then he comes in and parks his giant arse on everything, claiming: 'national security'."

"Oh. You found out why they wanted to kill Bellinger?" John asked.

"I would have. If he'd given me five minutes with the steward." Sherlock stamped his foot and then stormed off to his bedroom.

John blinked and sighed.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock changed into a clean suit, ran his fingers through his hair and headed back out, ignoring John's questions as he grabbed his coat and half-ran down the stairs. He needed to clear his mind of anger and frustration. He needed to be able to think. And he needed it now.

He hailed a cab and, as it took him to the address he had heard James give to the cabbie Friday night, he texted James to let him know he was coming. As he stepped out of the cab in front of the rather humble looking building, James came around the corner, his hair ruffled, his cheeks flushed and his mouth open in a wide, slightly breathless grin.

”Sherlock,” he called as he ran towards him. ”I'm so glad you're here.”

Sherlock smiled and accepted being pulled into a hug. ”You almost weren't,” he said.

James grinned as he took a step back, running a hand through his hair. ”Yeah, sorry about that. I was on my way to the shop when I got your text. Ran the whole way home.” He stood a moment, just looking at Sherlock. Then he kissed him.

It worked almost instantly. The smooth, moist sliding of lips, the first hint of an eager tongue and it kicked in. Sherlock could feel the natural opioid peptides flood his system and his mind went momentarily, blissfully, blank.

”I needed you,” he whispered against James' lips, feeling the other man gasp softly.

”Really?” James asked, and then took Sherlock's hand. ”You've got me now. You've got me.”

 

James' flat was small but neat. Everything was old , but had a slightly unused look to it. James smiled as he watched Sherlock look around. ”I just bought it all,” he said. ”Goodwill, you know. I had to leave my old place because too many people knew where I lived.”

Sherlock nodded. He too had considered relocating, but Mycroft  was keeping a constant eye on the flat, so he figured it was safe enough.

”It's nice,” he said, smiling as he looked at James, who laughed and led him over to the sofa.

”Make yourself comfortable,” he said. ”I'll make tea.”

Sherlock nodded and then looked around the room. There were a lot of books on the shelves. Mainly fiction. James seemed to have a soft spot for eighties fantasy and classic horror stories. He smiled fondly, imagining James curled up in the large armchair with a thick book, completely caught up in the story. There was no telly, but he hadn't really expected one. The large framed poster on the wall was, however, quite a surprise. It was for a French-British movie. 'Deux frères’. Two tigers, slightly overlapping, were looking out from a white background above the title and credits.

James appeared in the door. ”It'll just be a few minutes,” he said. ”Can I get you anything else? Are you hungry?”

Sherlock shook his head and pointed at the poster. ”That film? Is it any good?”

James stepped into the room so that he could look at the poster. He smiled and nodded. ”It's brilliant,” he said. ”Most of it has been cut together from footage of untrained wild animals. But the editing turns it into a story. A beautiful, sad and heroic story.”

Sherlock couldn't be sure, as he could only see his profile, but it seemed like James' eyes were shining a little. Like he might be on the verge of tears. He leaned closer to get a better look, but just then James turned his back and returned to the kitchen.

A moment later, he returned with two steaming cups. He was smiling, his eyes dry but sparkling. It must have been something else. Maybe just the light.

He sat down next to Sherlock and handed him one of the cups, putting the other one on the table. Sherlock sipped his tea and then smiled. ”This is really good,” he said.

James nodded smugly. ”Just as you like it?” he asked.

”Just as I like it,” Sherlock answered, putting down his cup.

James didn't hesitate. Rather, he practically jumped Sherlock, kissing him eagerly and with a hunger Sherlock hadn't sensed in him before. But it was working, so he wasn't about to protest. As James crawled into his lap, straddling his thighs, kissing him deeply and pushing his jacket off his shoulders, Sherlock let his mind wander to the little he had been able to learn about Bellinger from what he had heard. He had, of course, also checked whatever public (and not so public) information he could find on the man, but since he had received a promotion about a year ago, his work had been kept strictly confidential. Sherlock hadn't even been able to find out where the man had been staying during the five days he had spent in Vietnam before meeting the Forrestals.

He only realised that James had begun unbuttoning his shirt when he broke the kiss to lean down and lick one of his nipples. To his own surprise, Sherlock moaned and felt his body responding. This was... unexpected. Not what James did. It had been all too obvious that he was aiming to have sex with Sherlock. And Sherlock had been willing to indulge him. But now he found that he actually wanted it too. Or rather, his body wanted it.

He rarely felt such urges and even more seldom acted on them, but now he could see absolutely no reason to not let his body have the release it craved.

He put his hands on James' hips and then began tugging at his t-shirt, smiling as an eager whimper escaped the smaller man. James' lips left his nipple only long enough to get his shirt over his head, then he was back to kissing, licking and biting it gently. Then suddenly he sat up, looked down at Sherlock for a moment, his eyes burning with a strange glow Sherlock had never seen before, and then he let himself slide to the floor to kneel in front of Sherlock. He put his hands on Sherlock's knees and let them slide up his thighs until they reached his crotch. Sherlock gasped at the soft touch as James' fingers moved up to open his trousers.

He lifted himself up enough for James to pull his trousers down past his knees and then lifted his feet so he could get them all the way off. Then James pushed his knees apart and moved closer, placing one palm on the bulge in Sherlock's pants, massaging it softly. Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed with pleasure. It had been so long since he'd let anybody touch him like that. Not that many had wanted to, over the years. But here he was, feeling James' eager fingers pulling at his pants, working them down, his fingers touching naked skin, stroking his cock before slipping a condom on. He hadn’t even noticed him taking it out of the foil. He had been completely distracted by James’ touch and...

Sherlock's mind was drowned in an explosion of input as James took the head of his cock between his lips and began swirling his tongue around it. Sherlock was vaguely aware of himself squirming and moaning quite loudly, but his entire focus was centered on the sensations that James was causing. Surely it had never felt like this before. He had only received head a few times and had always felt it to be a slightly tedious activity, though easier than intercourse, so he had gone along with it when partners had offered. But this... This felt good. Maybe it was the result of the state he had been in because of the kissing. His system had been prepped for this. The clear thoughts and focus he had experienced had really just been his mind getting ready for this.

If this was what people felt when they were with a lover and not just a casual partner, a lot of things made so much more sense. He could understand how this could become addictive. Why some people would kill for this. He had always wondered, when he had one of his few and usually half forced orgasms. Now he understood.

James' tongue was done exploring and now he began sucking Sherlock's cock deeper into his mouth, causing an entirely new range of sensations. Without thinking, Sherlock ran his fingers through James' hair. This made him hum, which sent a wave of vibrations up through Sherlock's cock, making him gasp and twitch.

James began running his hands up and down Sherlock's thighs, as he started bobbing his head, sucking hard every time he took him in.

It seemed to go on forever. Each time Sherlock felt himself approaching climax, James would stop moving for a moment, only starting again once he felt Sherlock relax. Then, finally, when Sherlock felt he might soon start to beg for release, James took him deeper than he ever had before. Sherlock's eyes widened as he realised the tip of his cock was sliding down James' throat.

James swallowed once, and the tightening of the muscles was all it took. Sherlock cried out as he felt the tension in his loins increase and then release as he came, trying to keep himself from thrusting forward, even deeper down James’ throat.

Afterwards he wondered if he might have blacked out. He certainly didn't notice James releasing his cock, removing the condom or moving off the floor until he was sitting in his lap again, kissing Sherlock's neck lazily. Sherlock sighed deeply and wrapped his arms around James.

”Can we move to your bed?” he asked, his voice sounding rather slurred and very very deep.

James giggled and nodded.

 

…

 

When Sherlock woke up  with the feeling of a warm arm tightly around his chest, he nearly panicked before he remember ed where he was. He turned to look at James and smiled. He had fully inten d ed to return the favour one way or another, but as soon as they were lying down, James had begun kissing him again, and soon he had blissfully drifted off. Clearly James hadn’t minded, since he had put a blanket over Sherlock and held him while he slept. Judging by the light, it had been several hours. James was sleeping too, even when Sherlock placed a soft kiss on his lips. Then, just to see what would happen, he kissed his nose too. 

James grunted and his eyelids fluttered. Sherlock couldn’t suppress a giggle at the sight, and James opened an eye. “Oh…” he muttered. “You’re awake.”

Sherlock nodded, smiling. He really hadn’t felt this relaxed in ages. Coming here had been a really good idea. Who would have know n James would be so useful?

James smiled too and then leaned in to kiss him. The next ten minutes were well spent getting his thoughts sorted, until he was distracted by James calling attention to his body’s arousal, by slipping a hand into his pants to give his erection a soft squeeze. 

Sherlock remembered his intention of reciprocating the blowjob he had gotten earlier, and he gave James’ shoulder a soft push to make him roll onto his back. But instead, James giggled and pushed Sherlock, who soon found himself flat on his back with James kneeling next to him, pulling his pants down. 

“No,” Sherlock protested, though not exactly forcefully. “It’s my turn. Let me take care of you.”

“Oh, you will, honey,” James said, rising up to pull off his own pants. Sherlock reached out to touch his cock, as much out of his wish to please him as out of curiosity. It was quite different from Sherlock’s own. Thicker and shorter.

But James pushed his hand away and then moved so Sherlock could not reach him. He leaned over the edge of the bed, giving Sherlock a very direct view of his rather shapely backside and, to his surprise, Sherlock felt his cock stirring. He almost laughed. This was very unusual. He had not felt such an immediate sexual attraction to anyone since his late teens. And even then it had been more vague. Something easily ignored and pushed aside.

But this time, it hit him hard and with a sense of urgency he would never have expected. He lifted himself up and reached out a hand to touch James, but, as if the other man sensed his intention, he suddenly sat up and turned to Sherlock with a grin, holding up a condom.

Sherlock nodded and a moment later James was rolling the condom on him and then straddling his hips. Sherlock had been on the receiving end of intercourse enough times to know what to expect and how to handle it, but this was the first time he felt himself slide inside another person and the heat and tightness were so... intense… He gasped and then closed his eyes, wanting only to feel. To observe and save every single aspect of this new experience.

James was moaning softly as he sank down over him.  W hen Sherlock’s cock was completely buried inside him, he leaned down and kissed Sherlock. A long and very deep kiss.

Then he began moving and Sherlock’s senses exploded again.

For a long time he just lay there, completely caught up in the experience. Then his body seemed to take over and his hips rolled, matching James’ rhythm in a way that seemed to push him even deeper inside him.

Letting out a long soft groan, he lifted his hands and placed them on James’ hips, lifting him up a bit so he could thrust harder. The smaller man moaned and clenched around him, making Sherlock gasp.

It didn’t take long. He could feel his muscles start to tighten as they prepared for climax. He moved one hand to James’ cock and began stroking him, wanting him to finish first. James hissed and placed his hands over Sherlock’s, controlling the speed at which he moved it, and after a moment, he grew so tight it almost hurt and then cried out as he spilled over their hands.

The sight and sensations took Sherlock’s breath away and for several seconds it was like he was suspended in a sort of limbo where nothing existed but the warmth and friction of James’ body above him. Around him. Then sound came rushing back and, as James bore down on him, Sherlock came so hard his vision went completely white for a second.

As he lay there panting, his ears ringing slightly, James leaned down to kiss him again and then got off him to settle next to him, his cheek resting on Sherlock’s chest as he sighed happily.

 

…

 

"Ah, you're back. Calmed down a bit?" John had just returned from work and was still hanging up his jacket when he had spotted Sherlock. He seemed rather pleased about something.

Sherlock smiled and nodded as he got up from the sofa. "Yes. I'm feeling much better." He studied John. "What happened to you?"

John shrugged. "It was a rather nice day at work. Where did you go last night?"

"James' place," Sherlock said as he picked up his laptop. "I needed to clear my mind. He was very... helpful..."

John snorted. "Helpful?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, trying not to grin. "He seemed to know just what I needed."

For a moment, John’s expression seemed on its way to a frown, but then he smiled again, be it somewhat tightly. “I’m happy to hear that.”

"How about your new... friend? Is she as... perceptive?" Sherlock asked, smiling as he kept his eyes on John, so as not to miss any nuances of his reaction.

"Oh. You mean Liz? She's really just a friend," John said. "But she's a lot of fun to be around."

"That's good," Sherlock said. "You could use 'just a friend' I think. It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Now John really frowned. "I'm off for a shower," he said shortly.

Sherlock frowned too. "Did I say something wrong?" he asked. "She clearly wants to be more than friends. You should ask her out." A successful date would surely cheer John up.

"I'm really not sure I want to," John said. "Not after..." He stopped, tensely staring at the wall for a moment.

"What?" Sherlock studied him. "Sarah? You don't have to worry about something like that with Liz. She should be a sure thing."

"Really? You think this is about Sarah? Seriously, Sherlock, you're a moron." John turned and disappeared into the bathroom.

Sherlock stared after him. A moron? Him?

It took a moment, then his mind caught up. Mary! Of course. John was right. He had been a moron. But his mind felt pleasantly at ease after his night and day with James. He might be able to think more clearly when they were together, but the side effect seemed to be that he slowed down afterwards.

That might prove a problem at some point, so he'd need to give it some thought and see if it could be countered. He couldn't have it affecting his work negatively. But he really didn't want to go without the boosts James gave him either. He hoped he could find a way to deal with it, before he did something stupid.

 

When John returned from the bathroom, Sherlock had forgotten all about it. He had done his regular search with less than his usual focus, and had almost missed it. A seemingly random murder coinciding with the disappearance of a man that the locals described as 'large, standoffish and scary'. In itself not enough to warrant further investigation, but there was a picture of the victim and, for some reason,  it  had caught Sherlock's eye. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something vaguely familiar about the young man.

"Come here, John," he said. "Take a look at this. Do you think Moran could be behind it?"

John hesitated for a moment, then walked towards him and peered at the screen. "I don't know..." he said slowly. "When we found Moran's victims, he had been making the effort of patching them up. Does it make any sense that he'd do... this, now?"

"Maybe he was interrupted. Or panicked." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes. "I don't know yet, but there is something about this that just says 'Moran'.  Though I must admit it seems even more... brutal, than his usual work. Like his boss had a hand in it. But we know he's here in London. Or at least was in London shortly before this happened. No way he could have killed Levington and then gotten to..." He checked the screen. "Tórshavn, that quickly."

John nodded. "So you think they could find him there?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Long gone by now. But still. It's a start."

John stared at the screen for a while. "It's still strange. Even if he panicked, it's... messy. Like he  wants to attract attention."

"Or like he lost control. Like he is under stress. Which indicates that he is not abroad by choice but rather by order." Sherlock reached for his phone and began composing a text.

"Who are you texting?" John asked.

"Mycroft," he said. "Letting him know that Moran's boss is keeping him abroad. He may relax the security around me a bit, knowing my... 'ex' is out of the country."

"I doubt he will," John said, smiling a little. "But I guess it's a good idea to let  Mycroft know. He may find out more about where  Moran is now."

"Yes, maybe he can find out what plane he left on," Sherlock said, putting down his phone. A moment later, it buzzed and he looked down at it, smiling.

John leaned in to read over Sherlock's shoulder, but stepped back as soon as he had read a few words. "Er," he said, blushing a little. "That's not Mycroft, right?"

"I hope not," Sherlock said, as he began to type a response. "I'm pretty sure I did not spend last night at his place and if I had, I doubt he would be thanking me."

"No, and certainly not so... colourfully." John let out an embarrassed giggle.

"Yes," Sherlock said, smiling fondly. "He does have a way with word s , doesn't he?"

John grinned. "It's really funny to see you like this."

Sherlock looked up from his phone, puzzled. "Like what?" he asked, frowning at John.

"You know, all... smitten. You really like him." John was smiling.

"I'm not smitten," Sherlock said, sneering at the thought. "He makes me feel good. I am grateful to him. But there's no... sentiment."

John smirked. "So that's why you're looking at your phone like a lovestruck puppy."

"I am not," Sherlock said, starting to get angry.

"Of course not." John sat down in his chair, still looking amused.

Sherlock stood up. "Are you laughing at me?"

"Not really," John said. "Just pleased that sometimes you do something as human as falling in love."

Sherlock just stared at him for a moment. "What?" he said, sure he must have misheard.

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, sorry, I wouldn't want to insult you by calling you a human being."

Sherlock huffed and stalked off. 

How typical ly John. He just had to make more out of this than it really was. Falling in love? Him? As if.

 

…

 

Sherlock heard the doorbell, but decided to ignore it. He had been up most of the night, searching for other incidents that might point to Moran, but with no luck. He did not know how long he had slept, but he knew it wasn't enough.

The bell rang again - insistent, almost nagging, nothing like the hopeful yet polite ring of a client - and immediately after, his phone started too.

Sherlock scrambled for his phone. When he saw the name on the screen, he groaned. He considered turning it off, but knew it would not make him go away, so he took the call. "What?" he hissed into the phone.

"Sherlock, I am on a busy schedule today," Mycroft's annoyed voice came. "Since you are on a case, I don't see what you think to achieve by still being in bed at this hour. Let me in."

"Why should I let you in?" Sherlock snarled. "I am no longer on any case involving you. You saw to that, remember?"

"But you sent me the information on Moran. I think that is worth discussing, don't you?"

"What's to discuss?" Sherlock said, groaning as he got out of bed. "Either you can trace his flight from the islands or you can't."

"Though wouldn't it be a shame if I could and you didn't find out because you were too stubborn to allow your own brother in and offer him a cup of tea?"

"Yes. And it would be equally unfortunate if my brother was too stubborn to tell me this over the phone, or better yet, put it in an email."

"You know I'm coming in anyway, Sherlock," Mycroft said in a too-friendly tone.

"Suit yourself," Sherlock said and hung up,  then headed for the bathroom and a very long shower.

When he finally came out, Mycroft was sitting on the sofa, looking bored and shifting objects on the low table around with the tip of his umbrella. "Finally," he said, looking up and pushing a matchbox just a little too far so it dropped off the edge.

Sherlock watched the matchbox fall. He had bought it on his first date with James, intending to slip outside the club for a cigarette and a talk with the bouncers. But he had never gotten around to it. James had kept him... occupied.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I suppose it is a big improvement that you can be entertained even by a simple matchbox these days, certainly compared to your long fits of boredom, but could you perhaps focus on the question at hand for a few minutes?"

Sherlock's mood was not improved by being distracted from those particular memories, but he decided it was not worth getting into.

"So..." he said as he flopped down in his chair. "What have you found out? Do you know where Moran is now?"

"No," Mycroft said, "but at least you have pointed us in the right direction. From where he left, there are a few logical options that could be his next hiding place, and I will see to it that those are investigated."

"Good," Sherlock said, looking at him expectantly, hoping he would leave now he had said his piece.

"So I understand you have not taken another case after the Forrestals?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "I have been busy," he said with a sigh. Apparently his brother was not leaving. He looked around for his phone and spotted it on the table right next to the tip of Mycroft's umbrella. The message light was flashing. He quickly looked away, not wanting to draw attention to it.

Of course, it was too late, and Mycroft's eye fell on it. "Are you not taking that?"

Sherlock got to his feet. "Sure," he said, walking over to pick up his phone.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes a little. "You seem rather distracted this morning. Surely this can't have anything to do with that dark-haired fellow you have been seen with."

Sherlock tensed a little before snatching the phone away. "That," he said, "is none of your business." He turned his back before opening the message. It was from James. And even more elaborate than the previous one. He smiled, both at the thought of how John would have looked had he seen it, and in anticipation of the things James promised to do to him.

Mycroft sat up straight, leaning on the umbrella. "Well, I won't have to tell you again to keep your nose out of matters that are of no concern to you, if you have a more... ordinary... occupation these days."

Sherlock was about to protest, but then realised that letting Mycroft believe what he wanted just might make his life easier. "Correct, brother," he said. "I am quite smitten." He turned to smile at his brother. "Do you want to know the things we do? Or would you prefer footage, like last time?" he asked, cocking his head a little.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "No, thank you. As I said, my schedule is rather tight today, so I'm afraid I will have to leave."

"Oh, really," Sherlock grinned. "Let me at least show you the mark he left." He began loosening his robe. "It's not in a place I'd usually show off, but since you are my brother..."

The door was shut with just a little more force than necessary and Mycroft seemed to take the stairs with exceptional haste.

Laughing, Sherlock lay down on the sofa, rereading James' text.


	6. Chapter 6

It was the cheap sort of hotel where very few questions were asked, with mould spots on the wall and a hard bed that was well on the way to ruin his back. And yet it was an oasis of comfort compared to the last place where he had stayed.

Sebastian rolled over on his side and sighed. He wanted to sleep, if only to get one night closer to the unknown point in the future when he could go back to business. But after the incident in Tórshavn, he had avoided going out and all the cooped up energy was catching up with him. All he managed to do was staring into the darkness with his eyes wide open, feeling irritable and bored. It was the kind of mood that, if someone had been lying next to him, would have him start poking at them until they started messing around in earnest. But obviously there was no one there. And the only person who could really bring him rest in a mood like this, was back in London.

He rolled onto his back and groaned. He had been thinking about having a wank, but he knew that it would be unsatisfactory and only leave him even more frustrated. Even if he had just had the calming presence of a familiar body next to him without being allowed to touch, he would have felt better. It was ridiculous, really. They had often slept separately for weeks, and quite a few times it had actually been a relief to have the bed to himself if he had been staying over for a while. But now he had been far away from home for months and apparently it made him long for that one impossible thing. Ridiculous indeed, but he couldn’t shake it off. Not without thrashing this whole room into shards - that horrid vase looked like it would make a very satisfactory breaking sound - but he couldn’t afford another mistake. He had to stay in here and behave, however crazy it drove him.

He moved onto his other side, stretched his arm towards the tiny bedside table, flicked on the light and grabbed his phone. He fiddled with it for a moment, hesitating. Then he finally typed out a text.

_‘I miss you, Boss.’_

 

The answer came less than a minute later.

 

_‘I know.’_

 

Sebastian rolled his eyes at the message. ‘ _You busy?’_ , he typed.

 

_‘Yes. But I have time for you.’_

 

He smirked. ‘ _Just admit you miss me too, you bastard.’_

 

_‘I miss some things.’_

 

_‘All you have to do is give me the order and I'll be back.’_

 

_‘You know I can't. Not yet.’_

 

_‘Then come here.’_

 

_‘I can't. I'm working.’_

 

_‘Then think of something.’_

 

A moment later, his phone rang.

"Yes, boss?" Sebastian said, unable to keep down his grin.

"Get naked," came the curt answer.

"Really? I checked for cameras, but..."

"Now," Moriarty insisted.

Sebastian sat up and threw the blanket off himself. "Done."

"Good. Now on your knees, chest down, arse up." The words were followed by a low chuckle.

Sebastian put the phone on speaker and obeyed.

"Good boy," Moriarty said. "Now reach up behind you and massage your hole. The way you do when you are preparing it for me."

"When I get the chance," Sebastian said, once again following the order without a moment's thought.

"Tell me how it fells," his boss purred. "Is it tight? Has it been neglected for too long?"

"It is rather tight, and it has certainly been neglected for too long, Sir," Sebastian answered. "Can't you even take one day off to come put things right?"

"Patience, Tiger," he said. "Tease that hole. Think of all the things I will do to you once I have you in my room. Think of all the ways in which I have had you in there. In which I will have you again." There was a long pause. "You are mine. You are my Tiger."

"Yours," Sebastian nodded, a little breathless as he finally pushed his finger in.

Moriarty laughed. "Yes, you are. And right now you are just aching for me, are you not?"

"For anything that could get my mind out of this hellhole," Sebastian corrected, then sighed as he moved his finger.

"Oh..." The pause was even longer this time. "Well, if anything will do, then surely you don't need to bother me," he said, and then hung up.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Sebastian muttered, sitting up on his knees and snatching the phone off the bed to call him again.

It was answered on the third ring, but Moriarty did not speak.

Sebastian sighed and put himself back in the position Moriarty had asked for before. "Please, Boss," he tried. "You know that you really are the only thing that can properly occupy my mind and body."

After a moment a whisper sounded over the phone. "Go on."

"Thank you, Boss. What do you want me to do next?"

"Do you have your finger in yet?" he asked, softly.

Sebastian pushed and groaned. "Now I have."

"Good. Don't move it. Just keep it there," he said. "For now."

"Sir," Sebastian said, trying to manage his impatience.

Moriarty laughed. "No cheating," he said. "I'll be able to tell if you’re cheating." There were some sounds as if he was moving about. "Now, lift your other hand to your cock and wrap your fingers around it. Is it hard?"

"Very," Sebastian said, suppressing a whimper as he gave himself a soft, firm stroke.

"I thought so," Moriarty said, chuckling a little. "Just hold it. Firmly but not too tight."

"But I _need_..." Sebastian shut up. He couldn't argue and risk that Moriarty would put down the phone and not pick up again for the rest of the evening.

"You need me," Moriarty said. "Don't you?"

Sebastian just nodded, to his disgust feeling a slight blush creeping up to his cheeks.

"I can't hear you," Moriarty said, in a sing-song voice.

"Yes, Boss. Please," Sebastian sighed.

"Say it," he said firmly.

"I need you. I need my Kitten." Sebastian squeezed his hand a little more tightly around his cock.

"That's better," James said. "You can move your finger now. Slowly."

"Yes, Sir." He complied and moaned.

"I want you to make yourself come," he said. "Just using your finger. You can hold your cock, but no stroking or teasing. Understood?"

"Fuck. Why do you have to do this? Why can't you just let me take what I need?"

"You need me," Moriarty said. "That's all you need. Now do it."

Sebastian sighed and started moving his finger more forcefully. For a while, it was enough, but as he got closer and his hips moved more frantically, his cock throbbing heavily, he needed more. "Please," he whined. "Let me use just one more finger. Please, Kitten."

"Two more," the answer came. "Think you can fit that?"

"Yes, fuck, thank you," he gasped, pulling out his finger and pressing it against two others so he could slowly work them in. The stretch burned a little, which made him groan in bliss. "Oh, Boss..."

Moriarty laughed. "You are such a painslut," he said, a definite smirk to his voice. "I am so going to beat you up once I get my hands on you."

He moaned. "You're going to make me come if you keep talking like that."

"That's the whole point, isn't it?" he giggled. "I think I'll tie you to my desk again and whip you. And then fuck you until you scream."

"Yes," Sebastian breathed, bearing down on his own fingers. He wanted to suggest the knives, wanted to make Moriarty come with him by adding to the dirty talk, but all he managed were whimpers and animalistic sounds. "So close..."

"Come for me, Tiger," Moriarty purred. "Make a mess on your bed and then sleep in it, so you will wake up thinking of me."

"I always - Kitten -" He couldn't control his hand squeezing around his cock, and then with a shout he was coming hard, still thrusting his fingers fast until he slumped down in his own mess.

"Good boy," Moriarty said and hung up.

Sebastian groaned, made a feeble attempt to reach out to his phone and fell asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

John had almost made an enormous fool of himself. Again. It was only lucky that for once he had been warned just in time.

Even though he had avoided the embarrassment, the discovery had taken away his pleasure in the rest of the day’s work, and he was glad that it was his last shift of the week, so he would have the time to come to terms with the fact that he probably wasn’t getting laid any time soon. Even bloody Sherlock Holmes had a boyfriend these days. Not that a boyfriend was what John was in for. But a relationship. A nice time with another person without being torn by guilt.

Of course John was trying to be glad for Sherlock. Yet somehow, the fact that this distant, rational man was in love with someone, was just such a strange concept to wrap his head around. And to figure out how he felt about. He really wanted to be happy for him. It was probably very good for Sherlock, after a life of being almost socially isolated. And yet, something about it... hurt. It really wasn’t that he couldn’t grant Sherlock the happiness that he himself hadn’t found. He wasn’t that kind of person. He genuinely wished his friend all the best. And he wasn’t jealous, obviously. He wasn’t in love with Sherlock. He did admire his genius and liked being around him and working with him, even if he was of little use to him, most of the time. But it wasn’t a romantic attachment. Not even the curious hint of it that he had felt before they met, when he had been with Mary and had wondered about Sherlock. Back then, he had badly wanted to deny to himself that that had happened, but now it seemed better to accept it so he could believe he had gotten past that.

It didn’t even really worry him anymore that Murphy had worked for Moran. Yes, that concern was there, but John had sat through a whole date between Murphy and Sherlock and had seen for himself that there had been a true expression of adoration on Murphy’s face, that they had simply done all the things that happened on dates. And apparently they had explored their relationship a little further by now, so John could calm down his paranoia and believe that it wasn’t all a lie to get to Sherlock and spy on him. Of course he’d still keep an eye on Sherlock if he believed it was necessary to protect his friend, but right now it seemed only beneficial that he and Murphy were together, so he’d support that. He could be a good friend who didn’t get in the way of Sherlock’s happiness.

But before Murphy, it had been just the two of them. At first in the mails, when they had been each other’s only connection with another world. Another front. And then, as they had started working together, they had been the only two people who had really understood the battlefield that London was. Of course nothing had changed there. Probably Sherlock would still drag him along on cases. But somehow, however ridiculous, it made John feel less important, now he wasn’t the only one who understood Sherlock in some way. Even though it was in a completely different way, James had partly taken John’s place by the great detective’s side.

Honestly, it wasn’t just the change in Sherlock’s romantic life that made him feel like this. There simply weren’t so many lives that depended on John anymore, now he was just another doctor in a hospital. He was still useful, but his importance had diminished. Maybe it was time he started to see a therapist after all. It was almost funny that out of the two of them, Sherlock was the first to get his social life back on track. They had fought a different war, they had both come out injured, but Sherlock, it seemed, had been better able to deal with the trauma. Obviously John was happy for his friend, granted him that triumph. He just wished that he too had been able to move on, had not ruined almost every new contact because he wanted to drive it too far too quickly – wanted to be important too badly. That he wouldn’t constantly miss the war and the way things had been with Sherlock. Wouldn’t keep thinking of Mary all the time, asleep as well as awake, and regretting every choice he had made around his relationship with her. He couldn’t begrudge Sherlock anything because of his own pain. He should do everything to support Sherlock and to make his relationship with James work.

 

He had had all the time he needed to make up his mind on all that as he travelled home from work, and just before he opened the door to the flat, he took a deep breath and gave himself a nod. This weekend he would find the contact details of a good therapist and start looking at flats again, but first he would honestly tell Sherlock about his day. He opened the door and shrugged off his coat.

“Hey. You were wro- Oh.” He stopped dead, staring at the two men who were entangled on the sofa. “Sorry. I didn’t know you had a visitor.”

Sherlock looked up, his tousled hair even more ridiculous than usual. "Oh, hi, John," he said, smiling. "Have you met James?"

The shorter man, who had been lying half on top of Sherlock, got to his feet, giggling.

"Hi," he said, pulling down his t-shirt, which had been bunched up under his arms. "Great to meet you, John." He took a step forward, holding out his hand.

"Nice to meet you, too," John said, taking the hand and forcing a smile. "I'll just make a cup of tea and then you've got the living room to yourselves again."

"Good," Sherlock said, but James shook his head.

"John lives here too. We can behave ourselves. And I'd kinda like a cuppa," he said.

John smiled. "Of course. But I won't keep you too long."

Sherlock sighed and stood up too. "Do we have any biscuits?" he said. "I'm in the mood for something sweet."

James giggled and leaned over to whisper something in Sherlock's ear that made him chuckle and give him a playful shove.

"I'll bring some biscuits, yeah," John said, hurrying to the kitchen. Accepting what was going on was one thing. Getting it shoved in the face... Well. He'd make it an early night.

"There you go," he said as he returned to the living room with the tea and a plate of biscuits.

Sherlock was busy kissing James' neck, but James pushed him away gently.

"Sherlock," he said in mock exasperation. "I promised we would behave. Now give John a hand with that."

Frowning slightly, Sherlock walked over to John to take the teapot from the tray. He glanced at James, who gave him a tiny nod, and then sighed before looking at John. "Thanks," he muttered, putting the teapot down on the table.

James giggled as he sat down and winked at John.

John chuckled a little uncomfortably. "Good that someone is teaching him manners, I guess."

Sherlock huffed and sat down, crossing his arms. James just laughed and leaned forward to pour the tea.

John sat down in his chair. "So, ehm, are you staying over for the whole weekend, or just tonight?" he asked James.

James looked over at Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. "We hadn't really discussed it," he said. "But I'd love to stay.”

Sherlock frowned for just a second, then smiled and nodded. "That would be great," he said. Then, at a look from James, he looked over at John. "If it's okay with you, of course."

"Yeah, sure," John nodded. "Sure," he repeated, smiling a little.

James beamed at him. "I've been nagging Sher to let me cook my famous Irish stew for him. So tonight dinner is on me." He jumped to his feet. "Which means I have some shopping to do."

He bent down and kissed Sherlock. "I'll be right back, Sugar."

Sherlock smiled and kept his eyes on him until he was out the door. Then he turned to John, looking slightly sheepish.

John smirked. "Well done, Sugar. Looks like you're pretty serious about it after all."

Sherlock glared at him. "Don't call me that," he snapped.

"You didn't seem to mind a moment ago. But don't worry, I'll let it be your special thing. Just teasing." John grinned.

Sherlock sighed and seemed to deflate. "I wish he wouldn't call me that either," he muttered.

John frowned. "What do you mean? I thought you were having fun together."

"We are," Sherlock said. "It just sounds so... affectionate."

"Yeah, well, I guess affection is sort of the point of a relationship," John said, his expression softening a bit. "Is he perhaps going a bit too fast for you? You can tell people, you know."

"What was it?" Sherlock asked, looking away.

"Was what?" John asked, confused.

"What was it I was wrong about?" Sherlock asked, sounding rather doubtful.

"Oh. Right," John said, remembering what he had been saying when he came in. "Liz. You were wrong about her."

"Who?" Sherlock frowned.

"The nurse at work. The one you said was a 'sure thing'. She most certainly isn't."

"Oh?" Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. "Married?"

"Maybe, I wouldn't know. But she was wearing another kind of ring. Not on her hand, she's a nurse, she couldn't wear it for work. It’s just a coincidence that today I saw she’s wearing it on a chain around her neck, tucked under her clothes. A black ring."

"Black?" Sherlock frowned. "How large was it?"

"Just the normal size," John shrugged.

"It's very important," Sherlock said. "Black rings have very different meanings depending on which finger and which hand you wear them on."

"I know. That's why I said she wouldn't be interested," John said, rolling his eyes.

"She could be. If it is worn on the right hand, but not on the middle finger, she could be very interested," Sherlock said, smirking slightly. "Did you notice a mark on any of her fingers?" Then he closed his eyes. "No, of course not. If she wears it on a chain at work, it won't be very tight. And never left on long enough to leave a mark. Unless she's been tanning, that is." He opened one eye and looked at John. "Did you see any tan lines?"

"No," John said hesitantly, "but I thought..."

"You should find out," Sherlock said. "If it's the middle finger, she could make a great friend. No risks. But if it's any other finger, you could be in for a bit of an adventure. No strings attached and no jealousy to worry about."

John stared at him. "Did you ever need that knowledge for a case?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Of course," he said. "It was... interesting."

"Right," John said, looking away and clearing his throat. He didn't know what to do with the new information. It had been a lot safer to think Liz wouldn't want him in her bed. Now there was a chance again. "Listen, about James..." he started.

"I could stop by," Sherlock said, getting up suddenly. "I should be able to tell from a single look."

"What?" John frowned, then blinked. "You're not seriously talking about Liz. It's fine. I guess I'll find out."

Sherlock shrugged. "Okay, if you prefer to risk embarrassment. Or missing out." He headed for the bathroom. "I'm taking a shower. If James comes back, just show him where everything is so he can get started. He's been going on about that stew all day."

"Okay," John said, frowning a little. "Why do you suddenly approve of me going after a colleague, though?" he asked just before Sherlock had reached the door.

Sherlock turned to him, smiling. "Because either way, this will not be a relationship." He paused for a minute, then turned and disappeared into the bathroom.

 

…

 

"That stew really was delicious, James," John praised, smiling as he sat back after emptying his plate completely.

"My mother's recipe," James said, standing up to clear the plates away. He tutted as Sherlock passed him his still half-full plate, but then leaned down to kiss his cheek.

"I'll be off to bed soon," John said. "It's been a long day."

"Oh no," James said, returning from the kitchen. "I've bought ice cream. And cake."

"That's really nice, but I just can't eat another bite," John said. He caught Sherlock's gaze and got up. "You just enjoy your dessert together."

"Cheers," Sherlock said, but then he caught sight of James' pout. He stood up. "At least have a cup of tea with us," he said to John. "It's not that late. And tomorrow is Saturday."

John hesitated and looked over at James. "Are you sure? I really don't mind just going to bed."

Sherlock seemed about to speak, then changed his mind and just nodded. James beamed at him and disappeared back into the kitchen.

John smiled and followed him. "Can I help? I know Sherlock is a lazy sod, but that doesn't mean you have to do everything on your own. You're our guest."

James glanced at him over his shoulder. "Maybe get some cups?" he said. "Do you take sugar or anything?"

"No, black is fine," John said, taking out the cups.

"Sher likes sugar," James said, smiling as he poured the water into the teapot.

"Yeah, I know how he takes his tea. I've lived with him for a few weeks now," John said friendly.

James glanced at him. "Sorry," he said hurriedly. "I didn't mean to imply you didn't or anything. I... I just think it's cute. You know... Someone like him having a sweet tooth."

John smiled. "It's fine. I can see what you mean. I didn't mean to be snappy, I'm just a little tired."

"Yeah?" James asked, arranging the tray. "Tough day at work?" Then he looked John up and down. "You really should try the cake. It'll make you feel better."

John chuckled. "You should have warned me you had it, so I wouldn't have eaten too much stew."

He smiled and looked down at the box, displaying a very rich looking cake, covered in chocolate mousse and dark chocolate shavings. "I guess so," he said. "But still..." he looked up at John, his eyes almost sparkling. "Just a little piece? It really is the most delicious thing ever."

"Oh, have some," Sherlock called from the living room. "He won't give up, you know. He's very persistent."

James frowned and blushed as he looked away.

John lightly put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't mind him. Just a really tiny piece then, okay? Just a taste."

"You don't have to," James muttered. "I didn't mean to be pushy. I... I just do that sometimes. That's how I got that second date with him. I was... persistent."

"Really, it's fine. It _does_ look tasty." He gave James a reassuring smile.

James swallowed and smiled a little. "It does, doesn't it?" he said, putting the cake on the tray and then looking around for plates. As he took them out of the cupboard, his hands shook, making them clatter.

John frowned. "Hey, are you alright?"

James nodded. "I just... he's something else, isn't he?" He glanced towards the living room and lowered his voice. "He's so gorgeous. And tender. But sometimes... he just says these things..." He shook his head. "I don't know. I'm probably just being silly."

John smiled. "I think it's really good for him that he's met you. Just don't let him be too rude to you."

James giggled a little. "You really think so? You don't think I'm a bad influence or anything?"

John shrugged. "It's clear you're taking good care of him. Why would you be a bad influence?"

James glanced towards the living room again. "Didn't he tell you? How we met?"

"Yes, but... You're out of all that, right?"

James nodded. "Of course. When Moran disappeared, I figured it was no longer safe. I'm in IT now. Turns out I'm much better suited for digital security."  He laughed. "I never was a convincing thug." He picked up the tray and carried it through to the living room. "Sweets for the sweet," he said, beaming at Sherlock.

John shook his head and went to his chair, giving Sherlock a look to see if he was alright.

Sherlock smiled indulgently as James poured his tea and accepted the large slice of cake he handed him.

James settled next to Sherlock and kissed his cheek before reaching for his own cup.

John smiled. It seemed like Sherlock had calmed down again. Surely they would be able to work out whatever issues Sherlock had as soon as John gave them the chance to talk privately. Despite his full stomach, he reached for his plate and took a bite of the cake. A little too sweet for his taste, but he nodded at James. "It's very good indeed."

James smiled at him and leaned on Sherlock, resting his head on his shoulder.

Sherlock wolfed down his cake and then eyed the rest. "Anyone want more?" He asked, sounding rather hopeful.

"No, you can have it," John chuckled.

James handed the entire plate with the rest of the cake to Sherlock. "Go on," he said. "I'll help you work it off."

Sherlock chuckled and resumed eating.

"See?" John said, laughing. "You can't be a bad influence if you can even make him eat."

James giggled and Sherlock rolled his eyes, his mouth full of chocolate cake.

"Only the sweet stuff," James said, looking fondly at Sherlock. "There's a reason I call him Sugar."

"Let's just not tell his brother." John grinned at Sherlock.

James frowned as Sherlock snorted, almost spitting out a mouthful of cake.

"Why?" James asked as Sherlock coughed and washed down the cake with tea.

John felt just a little triumphant. "He's always teasing Mycroft with his weight and the amounts of cake he can stow away," he explained to James. "But apparently that last bit runs in the family."

James giggled. "Yes. But I don't think it will show on Sherlock. He's got such an amazing metabolism. I mean... Look at him." James looked Sherlock up and down, his eyes sparkling with admiration.

John chuckled. "Well, I'm off to bed. Goodnight and have fun."

"Oh, we will," James said, taking the plate from Sherlock before climbing into his lap.

John hurried to the stairs and suppressed a sigh. It would have been a nice night if he hadn't had to see that last moment.

 

...

 

Whatever they were doing downstairs - John didn't want his thoughts to linger on that for too long - they were quiet, and in the morning John felt well rested. Sherlock and James weren't up yet, so he had a quiet breakfast and then went out for a long walk. In the evening, he met up with Mike Stamford and told him about how his tip to Sherlock, months ago, had helped them a great deal in the Moran case and had also resulted in their strange friendship. Mike almost fell off his chair when he mentioned that Sherlock had a boyfriend now, but he agreed that that might be just the thing to keep the genius's mind occupied and away from drugs and danger.

When he came home after a few pints, the couple had disappeared. John didn't know whether they were in Sherlock's bedroom or if they had gone out, but he didn't mind the peace and just took his laptop to bed.

A few hours later, he was woken up by giggling and an urgent " _ssh_ " downstairs, but only long enough to put his laptop next to the bed so it couldn't fall off, and to find a better position for his back.

Once again, he was awake before the others, and he had just finished setting the breakfast table when the bedroom door opened.

Sherlock came out of his bedroom, bleary-eyed and tousled. He looked at John for a moment and then turned and headed into the bathroom, scratching his head sleepily.

A moment later, James emerged, wearing just a t-shirt and pants. He grinned when he saw John, and blushed a little. "Morning," he said, walking into the living room. "Anything I can do to help?"

John smiled. "No, it's fine. Just relax. I'll go make some eggs if you want."

James shook his head. "You shouldn't be making me breakfast," he said. "I was going to make some for Sherlock anyway, so why don't I make it for all of us?"

"I really don't mind," John shrugged. "I'd be making it anyway."

"Then how about we help each other?" James asked, heading for the kitchen. "I can fry the bacon."

"Alright then," John said. "I'm really not used to so much helpfulness. Except when Mrs Hudson is up here, that is."

James chuckled, taking out the pan. "Yes. Sherlock is not the helpful type, is he?" He glanced towards the bathroom. "And yet we put up with him."

"I guess he has his qualities." John realised what he had said and went bright red. "I mean... as a friend. I didn't want to..."

James looked at him for a moment then giggled. "So you two have never...?" He smiled. "I wasn't quite sure, you know. You seemed so tense when we first met, so I thought I might be imposing on something."

"Oh, no. We really haven’t known each other for long. I didn't even know Sherlock was actually interested in... anyone. And I'm not... I mean, I like women." John was still blushing.

James laughed at this and then turned to get the bacon out of the fridge. "Of course you do," he said. "Which I guess is my luck, right?" He winked at John before focusing on the cooking.

John didn't quite know how to react and focused on the eggs. It wasn't as if Sherlock had ever shown any romantic interest in _him_. Had he? Of course not, the very thought was ridiculous. And even then, it wouldn't have changed anything. John was straight and Sherlock was his friend.

James began humming as he turned over the bacon.

Just when he was taking the last slice off the pan, Sherlock came into the kitchen, wearing his robe and towelling his hair. "That smells delicious," he said as he walked over to James who kissed his cheek.

"Good morning, Sugar," he said and Sherlock smiled down at him.

"I just can't keep you out of the kitchen, can I?" he asked teasingly.

"Yes, you can," James said, grinning suggestively. "But we can't do that all the time, right?"

John cleared his throat and put the eggs on plates.

Sherlock shook his head, smiling at James, then went in and sat down at the table. James winked at John and then helped him carry the food and tea in.

For a while, they ate in silence.

"So... Back to work tomorrow, right?" John asked James.

James sighed and nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I guess I have to." He looked over at Sherlock. "Are you working on anything at the moment?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Yes and no," he said. "I have a case, but I can't work on it."

"Why?" James asked, looking back and forth between them. "Is something wrong?"

"The government stopped him because he was getting too close to secret stuff," John said.

"Oh," James raised an eyebrow. "Did your brother call you off?"

Sherlock nodded, not looking up from his tea.

"He wasn't all too happy," John said, smiling a little at Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed. "If I could, I'd keep working on it, of course. But he's effectively cut me off from further investigation. Completely sealed off any records from the flight in question. He's even had all the crew placed under oath not to speak a word about what happened on board." He shook his head. "Even I cannot break through my brother's security."

James looked down at his hands, smiling a little.

Sherlock frowned. "What?" he asked. "What is it?"

"Maybe _you_ can't," James said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "But that does not necessarily mean that no one can."

John frowned. "It's classified information. I mean, his brother is pretty high up on those things."

"I know," James said. "Moran had me working on breaking his system. That's how I found out who Sherlock really is." He smiled at John, blushing a little. "I had actually gotten through when Moran disappeared." Suddenly his proud smile faltered and he turned to Sherlock. "I never used it," he said quickly. “I... I swear. I just got through, but I never touched anything in the system."

Sherlock was studying him intently, not speaking. James looked away, trembling slightly and chewing on his lip.

John's eyes shifted between the two of them.

"I'm sorry," James began to say, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Can you still do it?" he asked eagerly. "Can you bypass the security?"

"Sherlock, you can't ask him to do that," John said, shaking his head.

Sherlock stared at John. "Why not?" he said. "If he can do it?"

James shook his head. "I don't know if I still can," he whispered. "It was months ago. They may have changed things."

"But there must be a reason why Mycroft doesn't want it known to... _everyone_ ," John protested. "No offence meant, James. Just... Those are state secrets!"

"No," Sherlock said, slamming his fist down on the table, making the plates jump.

James yelped and almost jumped too. Sherlock frowned and then reached out and put a hand over his. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "It's just... Two kind and innocent people died because of this. I think they deserve to have the truth be known. Them and their families."

James looked him in the eyes and smiled. Then he nodded. "Of course," he said. "I'll help you if I can."

"Sherlock," John said, but then he just sighed and shook his head.

Sherlock ignored John as he got to his feet. "What will you need?" he asked. "Can you use any computer?"

James nodded and Sherlock disappeared into his room.

John followed him. "Sherlock, are you sure about this?"

"Of course," Sherlock said. "I got together with James because I thought he could help me with the Levington case. But now it turns out he can not only help me find out the truth about what happened on that plane, but do it right under my brother's nose. What's not to like about that?"

John raised an eyebrow. "That's really all this was about? _Using_ him? I can't believe you."

"What?" Sherlock strode into his bedroom and got the laptop off the nightstand. The bed was quite a mess, the sheets lying bunched up in one corner, the covers spread over the floor. "I told you already. He helps me think. Focus."

"Yeah, but..." John groaned. "Doesn't it mean anything to you that you're going to hurt his feelings? And, anyway, do you really think it's safe to let him into information like that?"

"Why would his feelings get hurt? I asked him to do it and he said yes." Sherlock shook his head. "Besides, if Mycroft wanted those things to be kept secret, he could have told them to me, so I would not have had to seek outside help."

He brought the laptop into the living room. "Here you go, darling," he said. "Work your magic."

John almost groaned in frustration. Sherlock really didn't seem to understand that people didn't like being used.

He didn't feel like watching them work on breaking Mycroft's security, but on the other hand, he couldn't just walk away. If he was here to keep an eye on them, he could perhaps intervene if James got too close to information that wasn't related to Bellinger.

Sherlock looked over James' shoulder as he worked. It didn't take long before he jumped up in excitement. "That's it," he cried. "Copy it. All of it. And then get out before you're spotted."

"All of it?" John frowned.

Sherlock nodded. "I don't have time to sort through it. It's too risky." He smiled at John, his eyes sparkling eagerly. "And who knows what other useful stuff might be in there."

"Sherlock, if they track this back and they most probably _will_ , we're all in trouble."

"They won't," Sherlock said. "And even if they do, I'm the only one it will point to. Relax, John. You and James are perfectly safe."

"What use will it even be to you? The Forrestal case is closed and I can't imagine that Mycroft let the killer walk free if he knew who it was," John said, but he knew it was a lost battle.

"I want to know," Sherlock said, not even looking up as his eyes flew over the information on the screen.

"Maybe at some point you should learn that you can't always have what you want," John mumbled.

"Done," James muttered, looking down at his hands. "I... I think I got everything."

"Thank you," Sherlock exclaimed, pushing him out of the way, so he could get at the computer. "You really are a gem."

James frowned and looked over at John for a moment before turning and running into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

John gave Sherlock a pointed look, but he didn't even seem to notice, focused as he was on the screen. "Sherlock. Stop being an idiot and go talk to James. _Now_."

Sherlock looked up at him, blinking. "What?" he said, confused.

"James. Your boyfriend," John said, raising his eyebrows sarcastically. "The way it looks now, you've been keeping him here a whole weekend just to get to this. Just to use him. He's hurt. Who wouldn't be? So stop being such a retard and go make it up!"

"He's not my boyfriend," Sherlock said, beginning to look slightly alarmed. "We're just having fun. And he said he would help me. I don't see what all the fuss is about..."

“Well, he does. And I’m pretty sure he also thinks he’s in a relationship with you, so go talk things out.” John bent his head towards the bedroom door.

Sherlock looked in the direction he was indicating and frowned. "Are you serious?" he asked. "You want me to go... make up with him?"

"Don't you want to stay with him?" John asked, frowning.

"I don't know," Sherlock said. "I mean... I like having him around. He's really useful. And not boring. But..." He shook his head slowly. "I really have no idea."

"If you don't talk to him, you may be missing your chance," John pointed out. "And you should really tell him that you're not sure, too, rather than leading him on."

After a brief staring contest, Sherlock huffed and got to his feet. "Fine," he grumbled. "I'll talk to him."


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock knocked on the door to his bedroom, but there was no reply. After a moment's wait, he opened the door a little. ”James?” he called softly. ”Are you okay?”

There was a loud sniff from the direction of his bed and he opened the door wider to look in. At first he didn't see him, but then he realised the heap of blankets on the bed seemed to be breathing and making small sniffling noises.

Frowning, he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He went over to the bed and sat down, reaching out his hand to pat what he hoped was James' head. ”Are you okay?” he asked.

The pile moved in a way that may have been a nod, but was not in the place Sherlock had expected. Quickly he moved his hand to the right place and stroked the blanket gently.

”John said I might have hurt your feelings,” Sherlock said, uncertainly. ”Did I?”

There was another movement, this time right underneath his hand. He was pretty sure James was shaking his head, but as the movement was followed by a loud sob, he suspected the man wasn't being entirely truthful.

So he took a deep breath, found the right emotional tone and said, ”I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to use you. I was just so happy you could help me. It really meant a lot to me.”

The heap went quiet and then shifted until James’ face, his eyes red and swollen, his cheeks streaked with tears, peered out. ”Really?” he asked, his voice sounding oddly choked.

Sherlock nodded. ”Yes,” he said. ”I wouldn't have trusted anyone to do that but you. I mean... he is my brother after all.” He reached out and wiped a tear off James' cheek with a fingertip, then pressed it to his lips.

”I'm sorry I upset you,” he said. ”The last thing I would ever want to do is make you cry.”

”Why?” James asked, his eyes going round and hopeful. Like a dog begging for a treat.

He wanted something, that was clear. But what? It took Sherlock less than a second to figure it out, and before he had had time to consider, the words had already left him:

”Because I love you, silly.”

James made an odd squeaking sound and then practically launched himself out from under the blankets and into Sherlock's arms, kissing him so hard that Sherlock feared he might somehow actually suck out his tongue.

After a very long kiss, during which Sherlock had somehow ended up on his back on the bed with James lying on top of his chest, the shorter man pulled back. Breathless and blushing, he beamed down at Sherlock. ”I love you too,” he said. Then he kissed him again and Sherlock, figuring he might as well take advantage of the situation, began pulling his t-shirt up. James moaned and broke the kiss just long enough to let Sherlock pull the t-shirt off him, then latched onto his lips again, fumbling to untie the belt of his robe.

 

Two hours later, Sherlock sort of registered that James kissed his cheeks and whispered the same words in his ear, but he was too worn out and just rolled over and went back to sleep.

When he woke up, he was alone, and James’ clothes were gone. He let out a sigh of relief as he sat up. Having James around had proved even more convenient than he had thought it would be, but he was really looking forward to some time alone. Just having a cuppa and getting a look at all that delicious data James had gotten him.

James would be out of town until Wednesday and by then, Sherlock would probably be ready to play boyfriend again. Or end it, if the data proved to be enough to solve the case.

He stretched and then picked up his robe. As he walked into the living room he ruffled his hair, trying to clear his head of the last remnants of sleepiness. He was looking down and almost walked into John who was standing in the door to the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Enjoyed yourself?” His tone was colder than Sherlock had ever heard him.

Sherlock frowned. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess so. James is so nimble.”

“ _Nimble_ ,” John repeated. “But that’s not what you told him, is it? It wasn’t just ‘James, you’re good at this’. You had to tell the poor sod you _loved_ him. _Do_ you?”

Sherlock glared at him before pushing past him to get into the kitchen. “Were you listening at the door?” he asked, sourly. This was definitely none of John’s business.

“Of course not,” John said, at least having the decency to sound disgusted at the thought. “But when James returned from your bedroom a few hours ago, he was so happy he just had to tell someone all about it. And unfortunately I was the only person around.”

“Oh…” Sherlock hadn’t foreseen that. He should have known John would not approve. He tried his best smile. “Oops?” he suggested.

Apparently not the right answer. John stared up at him in shock. “That’s all you have to say? This is a big deal, Sherlock. Clearly not for you, but you should have seen him.”

“I did see him. Quite a lot of him. He did indeed seem very happy. And quite determined to show me.” He smiled at the memory. “Anyway, if it made him feel so happy, then what’s the harm?”

“The fact that you don’t love him. Or maybe you do, I don’t know, but before you went in there, you told me that you weren’t certain. And now you’ve given him hope. You’ve made him think he’s the most important thing in the world to you, while there is still a chance you may crush his heart later. That’s a lot more than a bit not good.” John sighed.

“You’re missing the point, John,” Sherlock said.

“No, Sherlock,” John interrupted him. “ _You_ are missing the point.”

“No, John. The point is that James was upset. Because of me. Now he’s happy. Very happy. Also because of me. Yes, he may get upset again. Most people do on a fairly regular basis. But that does not negate the fact that right now, he’s as happy as can be. Thanks to me.” Sherlock flashed him a quick triumphant smile and went over to the fridge, pushing aside the box of toes to see if there was anything edible at the back.

John shook his head. “You really think you’re the best thing that has ever happened to the world, don’t you? It’s one thing making him happy. You sure have a point there. But this is too important. This is _messing_ with him. You should be honest.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked, examining the small tub of yoghurt, trying to determine if it was still good. “When I _was_ honest, he got upset and you were angry about that too. Can I do anything right?”

“Maybe you just shouldn’t _use_ people like that. Like they’re just tools. They have feelings, you know.” John  was clearly getting angrier again.

“If he was just a tool for me, I wouldn’t worry about him being happy, would I?” Sherlock asked, exasperated. Then he paused, frowning. That was actually true. If he had not cared about James at all, why had his crying bothered him so much? “Oh…” he said as the realisation hit him. “I _do_ care about him…” The yoghurt and the spoon he had just picked up fell unnoticed from his hands.

John raised his eyebrows. “And you realise that _now_. Well, I guess it’s something.” He turned to clean up the yoghurt before Sherlock walked through it.

Sherlock just stood there, smiling a little. “So that’s what it feels like,” he said, checking his own pulse.

John frowned a little as he stood upright again and washed out the cloth with which he had wiped up the yoghurt. “So you’ve really never been in love before?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’ve certainly never felt like this before. I mean, it’s an actual physical sensation.” He caught John’s expression and rolled his eyes. “No… What I mean is… Just thinking about him. It actually causes involuntary muscle response. Look.” He pointed at the corner of his mouth that was pulling back and up in what was turning into a slightly goofy grin.

“It’s like I cannot help smiling. Just because I speak his name.” He considered for a moment then tried it. “James…” He chuckled and nodded as he felt his grin widen even further.

John snorted incredulously, but then managed to hold back his laughter and to more or less neutralise his expression. “That’s what ordinary people call being in love,” he nodded.

“That’s it?” Sherlock said, still grinning in spite of himself. “Just… smiling without wanting to? All the time?”

“Not just that,” John said, actually looking amused now. “Are you being serious now, or is this just a way to account for what you said so I’ll shut up about it? Have you really never _liked_ anyone?”

“Sure I’ve like people,” Sherlock said. “Well… Not a lot of people, but a few. But not like this. Not this… silly, giddy feeling. It’s…” He frowned. “It’s kind of undignified. Do people really feel like this all the time? How do they ever get anything done?”

John smirked. “Some cope with it and some don’t, I guess. It can be quite… intense.”

Sherlock nodded. “It does explain a lot of behaviours I’ve found to be completely irrational in the past. They still are, of course, but now I see their cause.” He glanced around. “I should take a blood sample. I don’t know what my hormones are getting up to, but it’ll be useful for reference on future cases.”

John frowned and then nodded slowly. “Yeah, you do that…”

Sherlock found the necessary equipment and held it out to John. “Will you do it?” he asked. “My hands seem to be a bit shaky at the moment. I wonder if that is a side effect. Or if it’s just a sign that I should probably eat something soon.”

John rolled his eyes. “I’ll do it if you have something to eat first.”

Sherlock nodded and looked around. Then he giggled. “Oh, that sweet thing,” he said as he went over to open a cupboard that had not been properly closed. Someone had filled it to the brim with biscuits, chocolate and cakes. He got out a bar of orange flavoured chocolate and unwrapped it as he sat down at the table. “Will this do?” he asked John before biting into it.

“For now,” John said, looking a little exasperated. “I _did_ wonder what he was doing in the kitchen before he left,” he muttered, more to himself than to Sherlock.

Once John had drawn the blood, Sherlock sent him off to the lab to ask Molly to take care of it. Then he settled down with a pot of tea, a pack of biscuits and his laptop, to get started on the enormous amount of sensitive information James had procured for him.

 

When John returned two hours later, Sherlock was pacing the flat, having pulled so much on his hair that his scalp was tingling. He whirled on John the moment he saw him. “This is big,” he said, rushing to his friend, grabbing his arm and pulling him over to the laptop. “This is the biggest thing ever.” He pointed at the screen and then slumped down in the chair.

John blinked and frowned at the laptop. “What am I looking at?”

“Bellinger,” Sherlock huffed. “He’s been under investigation for over a year. He…” He gave John a meaningful look. “He’s been working for the other side. Do you understand what this means?”

John stared at him. “He was a traitor?”

Sherlock nodded. “The worst kind. He was leaking information to not only one enemy of Britain but at least three, maybe more. He was in it for the money. Nothing else.” He scrolled down the long list on the screen. “That’s how Mycroft found out. Bellinger was spending a lot. Much more than he should be able to. How can someone so smart be such an idiot?”

“One sometimes wonders.” John cleared his throat. “So… I guess that’s important for the Forrestal case?”

Sherlock jumped up and began pacing again. “Are you kidding me? Of course it’s important. It’s the whole reason. For their deaths. And for Mycroft pulling the plug on the investigation. Don’t you see it?” He looked at John. Surely he understood. It was so obvious. Wasn’t it?

John frowned. “Had he given the Forrestals information?”

“What?” Sherlock frowned, then shook his head. “No. Of course not. Why would he? They were just an ordinary dumb couple. No, their death was entirely accidental. But how they died is very, very bad. For my brother. And possibly for the country.”

“Because the poison got onto the plane through all of security?” John was clearly at a loss. But then his expression shifted in realisation. “Unless they’re behind it…”

“Yes!” Sherlock cried, grabbing John by his shoulders and pulling him into a hug. “That’s it. Mycroft didn’t want the deaths investigated, because he is behind it. Or at least someone he works very closely with is. But probably Mycroft. Yes. It must be Mycroft. The steward wasn’t paid off by some foreign assassin. He,” he pointed to the screen at a name that was underlined, “was actually planted there by Mycroft. He was never a steward, but a government operative. That’s why Mycroft wouldn’t let me talk to any of the crew. They could have told me that he was not an employee of the airline, but someone they had never seen before. And maybe even that he wasn’t very good at his job.”

John pulled out of the embrace and blinked, looking a little dazed. “So he wanted to poison Bellinger, but made an enormous mistake.”

“Yes. He did not dare serve the drink himself, because that would too quickly point to him when Bellinger died shortly after landing. So he mixed the drink, but let one of the others serve it. Her.” He pointed at another name. “She quit her job a few days after the incident. In fact, it was her last day at work, as she called in sick the next morning. Guess where she is now.”

John shrugged. “Where?”

“Australia. Convenient, isn’t it? So far away.” Sherlock chuckled. “Oh Mycroft, you’ve been a very bad boy this time. Killing off people. And on a plane no less. If word of this got out, it would cause a panic.”

John’s face darkened a little at that. “James has seen this information too, right? What if he tells someone about it?”

“He only copied it. He did not have time to look through it, let alone read it,” Sherlock said dismissively. “He’d have to have eidetic memory to have gleaned any kind of information from what he saw.” He smiled, shaking his head. “James is a gifted hacker, but he’s hardly a genius.”

“Right.” John frowned a little. “So what are you going to do now? Confront Mycroft?”

“Oh, that’ll be brilliant,” Sherlock said. “But not yet. I need proof first. Proof that does not involve James getting me this information.”

“But there won’t be any proof, will there?” John asked. “I can imagine Mycroft took care of that, too.”

“Except for the stewardess. Jenny Smith. She must know something. Otherwise it would not have been necessary to send her so far away.”

John nodded. “So you’ll contact her?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. But it won’t be easy. Not without Mycroft knowing about it.”

“Right. I forgot he checks your mail,” John said. “So… We have to go to Australia?”

"No," Sherlock said. "We can't. Not without arousing Mycroft's suspicion." He considered for a moment, then checked the time. "I'm going to call James. He should be home now." He took his phone and went over to lie on the sofa while he waited for James to pick up.

John nodded and disappeared to the kitchen.

"Hi, Darling," Sherlock said, smiling. "Any chance of you getting a couple of days off any time soon?"

 

…

 

"So you're really dragging James half across the world just to help you spite your brother," John sighed as he noticed the flight tickets lying on the printer that evening.

Sherlock grinned. "No, I'm taking him to Mexico because he's always wanted to go and it will make him happy," he said, carrying his suitcase out of his bedroom. "We're leaving Thursday."

"Why Mexico?" John frowned.

Sherlock frowned at him. "I just told you. He's always wanted to go there." Then he shook his head. "No idea why that is, of course, but he was so thrilled when I asked him to go on a trip with me."

"No. You needed to go to Australia. You must have a reason. One that apparently you haven't told your boyfriend." John shook his head.

Sherlock sat down at the laptop and began checking flight times. "Yes," he said. "And while we're in Mexico I'll just pop on down to Australia and have a little chat with Ms Smith."

"And you'll just leave James behind?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock looked up at John. "You don't want me to bring him along, do you? Get him involved?"

"I only want you to be honest to him," John said, looking tired. "This... This isn't fair."

"Why not?" Sherlock said, checking the return flights. "He knows what I do. That I'm always working. And he still gets a trip out of it. It's not like I won't be spending any time with him."

"But is it so hard to just tell him why you're actually doing this?"

"No," Sherlock said. What was with John? Why was this such a big deal to him? "But if I tell him, don't you think it might upset him? Wasn't that what I supposed to avoid doing?"

"It might upset him more if he finds out later that you didn't tell him everything," John said. "Not that it's any of my business. I'm just not sure he was the right person to bring along."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and chuckled. Oh, so that was why. "Jealous?" he asked, teasingly. It was kind of sweet that John would want to go with him, but he couldn't do that. Not with his new job and everything. And it would look a lot more suspicious than Sherlock taking his boyfriend on a trip.

John stared at him as if he had sprouted an extra head. "What? _No_! That's absolutely _not_ what I'm saying."

Sherlock nodded, still grinning. "Of course not," he said. "You're just really concerned for James, right? Because you like him so much." He shook his head. "About a week ago you thought he might be trying to kill me. Or sell me to Moran again. You even spied on him, remember?"

John looked angry. "I'm just trying to help you make this work. But if you know what you're doing, fine. You don't have to listen to me." He turned to leave the room.

Sherlock huffed and shook his head, focusing back on the laptop.

 

…

 

Sherlock was grinning to himself as he made his way to the staff’s cafeteria. This was a great idea. He could help John out with this ring-situation and either get him a good friend or a potential lover. Either would surely please him and take his mind of all these silly issues he had about Sherlock and James.

He looked around the room and spotted John sitting at a table in a corner with a few other people. He smiled at him and waved as he approached.

John's eyes widened and then he frowned, giving him a questioning look.

Sherlock pulled out a chair and sat down. "So," he asked. "Which one is it?"

John closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, before he looked at Sherlock with an almost pleading expression. "What are you doing here?" he asked between his teeth, then quickly held up his hand. "No, don't explain it." He glanced up at his colleagues, then continued in a low voice. "You can't just barge in at my work."

Sherlock frowned. "I'm not barging in," he said. "I'm visiting my friend. No one stopped me."

"You're not here for me. You're only here to show off." John was looking up at the other people in the room again, shifting on his chair.

Sherlock almost got angry at those words. "I am here to help you," he said. "Because you are my friend." Why was John acting like this? Was he still sore about not being asked to go on the trip with him? Probably. He'd better not bring it up, though. Not here.

"Right." John let out a small sigh. "Listen, Sherlock, I really appreciate the sentiment and I'm grateful you came all the way here. But it's really not necessary. Let's... let's just have lunch, okay, and then you can go back home."

Sherlock sighed and looked around. Then he smiled. "It's her, isn't it?" he whispered, indicating a woman a few tables away. "Introduce me," he said. "I only need a brief look."

John shook his head. "Let it go."

Sherlock smiled as he saw the woman turn to them. He nodded and then his grin widened as she approached them.

"Who's your friend, John?" she said, looking Sherlock up and down.

For a moment, John's shoulders sagged, before he smiled at her and said, "Ah, this is my flatmate, Sherlock. I told you about him. Sherlock, this is Liz."

Sherlock stood up and took her hand in his, running his thumb over the back of her fingers. His eyes flickered down to the ring on the chain around her neck before he met her gaze, smiling. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he said.

"Likewise," she said, then let go of his hand and looked down at John. "A bunch of us are going out for a pint tonight. Would you like to come along?" she asked.

"Oh, er..." He quickly looked up at Sherlock, then back at her. "Sure."

"You can bring your friend if you want," she said and winked at Sherlock before turning to leave.

Sherlock sat down, smiling smugly at John. He nodded. "Sure thing," he said under his breath.

John sighed. "Yes. Well. Thanks, I guess."

"No problem," Sherlock said, leaning back in the chair. "You could have her over while James and I are gone. Have the flat all to yourselves."

John looked doubtful. "I don't know. I should find out if she's in a relationship, because I'm really not planning to become a third party somewhere. It was easier when I thought I didn't have a chance."

"How is this not easy?" Sherlock asked. "She is actually advertising for no-strings sex. And you can still look for a more steady partner." Why did John always have to make everything so complicated?

"It's that my last 'no-strings' situation got rather complicated." John bit his lip and looked at his sandwich.

"Oh..." Of course. Sherlock frowned. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't see it that way." He considered for a moment. "But she's not a close friend. And she must be used to things like this, so maybe she'll handle it better than... than that last time."

"I'll think about it," John said, before taking a bite.

Sherlock nodded. "I hope you give her a chance," he said. "She did seem really nice." Just what you need, he didn't add.

John looked at him with something close to surprise, then stood up and picked up the rest of his sandwich. "Time to get back to work."


	9. Chapter 9

A tennis match. A nature documentary. Some old soap that looked like they had been broadcasting even the repeats for more than thirty years. Couldn’t there be a good action film somewhere, so he could see some blood and relax? Apparently that was impossible on an early Monday afternoon. If only he were staying in a decent hotel with video on demand or at least a dvd player. But no. Everything for the sake of anonymity. Then couldn’t his boss at least have put him somewhere out in the wild where he could spend the time hunting animals? Or somewhere where they had a gym?

He felt like a caged beast. Neglected by its owner.

Sebastian glared at his phone. Five text messages sent since Moriarty’s phone call. None on the first day; he wasn’t needy. But then he had reached out. Of course he didn’t immediately expect an answer; he knew that his boss was busy. But he had hoped for _something_ after a whole weekend, just some news from the real world, from the work that was going on. Yet Moriarty never answered.

Sebastian knew his boss must have noticed all the texts by now. Maybe he figured that his Tiger had not deserved his earlier treat over the phone, and wanted to let him know it wouldn’t happen often. Even though Sebastian was certain that he had enjoyed it too. The distance had made him a lot more tolerant about letting his Kitten humiliate him. He must have loved it.

Of course Moriarty could have taken an important job, but Sebastian doubted that there would be anything that could keep his mind so occupied for several days that he couldn’t even type out a quick message. It would be extremely unusual at the least.

Maybe Sebastian should just call him and have a wank while the voicemail recorded. See how Moriarty liked hearing Sebastian come without having anything to do with it and no means to change anything about it. It would be fun if it could actually distract him.

Sebastian was still considering that plan when suddenly his phone buzzed. A text. Finally.

_‘It’s time Tiger. Got something for you. Start packing. I’ll be sending you the details tonight.’_


	10. Chapter 10

‘ _Are you sure you’re not coming with us? Liz invited you again this afternoon_ ,’ John texted, before he got up from his desk and went to the bathroom to refresh himself a bit, as he would go straight to the pub from the hospital.

When he returned, Sherlock had answered.

‘ _I can't. Our plane leaves very early and I still need to make sure that I will be able to track down Jenny Smith quickly once I'm there. SH_ ’

' _Alright. I'm not sure when I'll be home tonight, so I may not see you before you leave. Have fun and a good trip. And be careful_ , _'_ John answered, then pocketed his phone and straightened his hair one last time before he left his office.

 

A small group of people had already collected around Liz when John arrived at the pub. He smiled and waved at her when he caught her eye.

Liz smiled back and waved him over. "Hi, John," she said. "Come meet my friends." Her friends turned out to be a group of three girls and one man who, it seemed, was together with the short redhead to Liz' right.

"Hi," John said, smiling. "Nice to meet you all."

They all shook hands with him and then made room so he could join them at the small round table. Liz ordered a round of drinks and an hour and a half was spent swapping funny stories from work and about mutual friends, though Liz made sure to keep John included, filling in some information here and there so he would get the jokes.

When the other guy, David, and his girlfriend had gone to get another round, Liz leaned over to her friend Dana and said, loud enough for John to hear: "Too bad John's friend couldn't come. He's quite the character. Gorgeous too."

Dana giggled and smiled at John. "Oh," she said. "A friend? Or a... _friend_?"

“Oh, no, he’s really just a friend,” John answered. “I’m just staying over at his place until I’ve found a flat of my own.”

"How did you and Sherlock meet anyway?" Liz asked. "He's obviously not a doctor and... he doesn't look like a soldier either."

"Sherlock?" Dana said, staring at him. "Sherlock Holmes? _He_ 's your flatmate?"

"Yes," John said, a little surprised. "He's a detective and he contacted me for a case when I was in Afghanistan. You know him?" he asked Dana.

She seemed about to speak, but then, as the others returned with drinks, she shook her head. "No," she said. "I've just heard of him. Once." She shrugged. "It's the kind of name you remember, isn't it?"

“Yeah,” John nodded, taking a sip of his new drink. “Quite unusual. Just like him.”

The talk turned to other things for a while, but when it was starting to get late and the table was filling up with empty glasses and bottles, Liz leaned over, put her hand on John's knee and whispered - or rather tried to, but her judgement seemed a bit impaired, so everyone at the table probably heard what she said: "That friend of yours. I hope he can join us some other time. Maybe just the three of us." She giggled and winked, leaving little doubt as to what she had in mind.

John couldn’t help but starting to giggle too, as he had had his own share of the drinks. “I’m sorry,” he said. “He won’t want to. Got a boyfriend.”

"What?" Liz said, pouting slightly. "Sherlock's got a boyfriend? You're pulling my leg."

"No, I'm not! He's with James. Wait, I can show you, they've nicked my phone last night. I left it in the living room and suddenly I found a whole new set of pictures on it." He rolled his eyes and almost dropped the phone as he took it out, making him giggle again.

When he showed Liz the most decent picture, she let out a loud "Awh," and took the phone. "Aren't those two precious?" she said, showing it to the others. Dana screamed and dropped her glass, which smashed on the floor.

"That... That man..." she stammered.

John stared at her with wide eyes. "Okay, Sherlock can be scary, but that's usually only when he starts talking..."

"Not Sherlock," Dana said, her voice trembling as she pointed at the picture. "That one... Murphy. I've seen him before. He... He works for that thug... Moran..."

John felt himself sobering up at the shock. "How do you know about Moran?"

"I..." Dana said, hesitantly. "I had a friend who... knew him..."

"God. What happened to her?" John asked.

Dana looked down at her hands. "She died," she whispered.

Liz, who was the only other one to hear this, gasped. "Oh my god," she said. "What happened?"

"Moran happened, probably," John frowned.

She shook her head. "No,” she whispered, not looking up. "Moran had gone. That's why she thought it might be safe to stop hiding. But he might come back. So she wanted out of the country. Needed money. So..." She made a sound kind of like a sob. "She tried to make a deal."

"What kind of deal?" John asked softly.

"She said she had some information. That would make it impossible for Moran to ever return. She'd offer to keep silent if they gave her enough money to move away. She'd swear never to tell or return to England. If they didn't pay, she'd... go to him." She pointed at Sherlock’s image.

"God," John said, shaking his head. "She should have come to him right away."

"That's what I said," Dana said, looking up at him. "But she said that he didn't seem quite... trustworthy. So she got in touch with _him_ instead. Murphy. He said he might be able to help."

"But he doesn't work for Moran anymore, right? That's what he told Sherlock, and he must have good reason to believe him," John said.

Dana shrugged. "I don't know. He said he could help her. Or knew someone who could. I'm not sure. She went with him and we never saw her again. Thought she'd gotten her money and split. But then that police bloke showed up a week later." She sniffed and Liz pulled her into a tight hug.

John bit his lip. "James should know something about it, then. Why did he never tell Sherlock?"

The subject had quite effectively killed the mood and Liz offered to take Dana home, while David and the other two women wanted to move on to a nightclub they knew. The look Liz gave him, told John that it might not be his kind of club, so he declined their invitation and went home.

 

When he arrived at the flat, he wasn’t quite sure what to do. It seemed important to tell Sherlock what he had learned, but everything was quiet at the flat. Probably he was asleep, preparing himself for the case abroad, when he wouldn’t allow himself to sleep much. And it was only a few hours before he would have to leave. John decided he wouldn’t wake him up. He could tell him later, in a text, and ask him then if James had indeed never told him that he had met Jane Levington. Right now, John wasn’t up for much talking anyway. Going out this late after a day of work had exhausted him, and he was convinced that he would fall asleep as soon as he hit his pillow.

Yet when he was lying in bed, the thoughts popped up again. If James was still interfering with Moran’s business, the colonel and his boss would surely come after him and Sherlock at some point. And even worse, if James was still working for Moran… But surely Sherlock would not make a mistake like that. He saw through everyone and everything. Only a genius like himself would perhaps be able to fool him.

It was almost an hour later when John finally fell asleep.

 

...

 

A man and a woman were standing in a hall. She was talking to him, looking earnest, but he was just grinning all the time and obviously not listening to what she said. He looked familiar, but it took a while before John realised whom he reminded him of. And even then, something was seriously off. One moment it looked like it could well be him, but then that insane flame returned to his eyes, and he didn’t even look one bit like James. And then, without any warning, the man jumped the young woman. She fell back, and he turned into an animal, devilish looking and dragging off pieces of her flesh with his teeth and claws. And John was screaming, he couldn’t stop, but he had to watch it all. And then finally the man had finished, leaving the body like Sherlock and John had found her at the crime scene. And the man, crouched next to the body, took a step back and looked up at John, smiling. It was James’ smile, but his dark eyes were completely dead.

 

John woke up with a jolt, breathing hard. His throat was raw as if he had indeed been screaming, and he groaned as he rolled onto his back. He couldn’t even remember having a nightmare that wasn’t about the war. What had all that been about? None of the crime scenes they had been to had affected him so, and this one had been some time ago. It didn’t make sense, anyway. James, Sherlock’s sweet and sensitive boyfriend, committing a murder like that? And Sherlock had been certain that the killer was Moran’s boss, anyway. So what was James doing in his drea… Oh. _It would take a genius to fool Sherlock Holmes._ God, no. That couldn’t be true.

Within the second, John was out of bed, but a quick glance at his alarm clock made him wince. Sherlock had probably already arrived at the airport. He tried calling him as he dashed down the stairs to barge into his bedroom, but his flatmate was indeed gone and he didn’t pick up his phone. Damn it. John ran back up to his own room and jumped into his clothes. He had to reach Sherlock before he took off. It had only been a dream, he could still be wrong. But he needed to at least warn his friend about what he suspected, before he was out of the country with James. He couldn’t let him take the risk. If he put everything together, it looked more and more like it hadn’t been a coincidence that Murphy had been around to pick up Sherlock, back when he had just escaped from Mycroft. Maybe he had checked Sherlock’s identity long before, and simply waited for his chance. The more John thought about it, the more what he dreaded started to make sense.

 

At the airport, John jumped out of the cab and almost forgot to pay, so he was called back and lost a precious minute. Then he ran into the entrance hall and looked up at the notice board. To his relief, Sherlock’s flight had not yet started boarding, but it couldn’t be long now. For a moment, John hesitated, then he rushed to one of the desks.

“The cheapest ticket you have. I don’t care where it’s going,” he said hurriedly.

Unfortunately, the woman behind the desk seemed in much less of a hurry, asking him one irrelevant question after another until John was almost squirming where he stood. When he could finally turn away with his ticket, the notification of Sherlock’s flight had changed into ‘boarding’.

John groaned at the sight of the security queue, but there was no other way to get to the other side and reach Sherlock. Time was running short by the time it was his turn to go through, and of course the buzzer went off as he walked past the metal detector.

“Sir, can you please go to the left for…”

He didn’t have time for this. He leapt for the belt, grabbed his phone and wallet, and ran.

People were shouting after him and he heard that someone was chasing him, but he didn’t look back and sprinted in the direction of Sherlock’s gate. The signs led him to a descending escalator, but his pursuer was still following, so he kept running, holding onto the railing so he wouldn’t fall. Then suddenly, below him, he caught sight of a familiar head of messy curls in a long queue of people.

“Sherlock! SHERLOCK!”

Sherlock looked up, frowning in confusion at hearing his name, before he spotted John’s mad waving.

“Sherlock, wait! There’s something I need to tell you!”

Sherlock held up a hand to his ear and shook his head, indicating that he couldn’t hear what John was saying.

The security woman had caught up with John and grabbed his arm. “Sir, if you would be so kind to come with me,” she ordered, but John kept struggling. “Please,” he said quickly. “I need to reach that man. He’s in danger.” Then he turned away from her again to look down. “Don’t trust James!” he shouted.

Sherlock gave another little shake of his head and then shrugged at James, before both of them waved at John and stepped out towards their plane.

John’s shoulders sagged. He had been too late. The woman was dragging him along now, but he hardly noticed, still staring down at Sherlock’s gate.

 

…

 

It took a few hours and even more warnings before the airport security finally let John go. They had been suspicious at his explanation, but in the end the fact that he wasn’t carrying anything illegal made them give in. To his horror, the woman who had run after him walked him out with a lecture about when she herself had been lovestruck and did silly things, but how he shouldn’t let it influence other people and make them feel unsafe at an airport.

Sherlock was well on the way to Mexico now, sitting next to possibly the most dangerous man they had ever met, without having a clue. And what would happen when they arrived there, if John was right?

He took his phone out to check for messages, since he had simply pocketed it right after he got it back from security. Two missed calls from an unknown number, but no voicemail messages. Frowning, John tried calling back, but he was immediately directed to an unpersonalised voicemail. He sighed, wishing he could call Sherlock, but he wouldn’t be able to reach him now he was on the plane.

His next thought was to call Mycroft. But then, he still couldn’t prove anything against Murphy, and Sherlock absolutely wanted to avoid Mycroft’s control on this particular trip. John could call Sherlock as soon as he had landed, but James might notice that something was off in Sherlock’s reaction, which would endanger Sherlock even more. And John had seen often enough how James leaned in to read along when Sherlock got a text, so that certainly wasn’t an option.

None of that gave Sherlock any back-up, anyway. There was only one solution that could really make a difference. If only the security would let him pass a second time on the same day and wouldn’t accuse him of stalking.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock tried to hang back, but the other passengers were pushing them along and James, eager to get on the plane, was pulling on his arm. He couldn’t see John anymore and he had not been able to hear what he had been trying to tell him. It must have been really important, for John to have followed him to the airport. But why hadn’t he just called?

Sherlock reached into his pocket for his phone, but it wasn’t there.

“James, stop,” he said. “My phone. I must have dropped it.”

James sighed. “We can’t go back for it now,” he said. “Or we’ll miss the plane.”

“But I need it,” Sherlock protested, trying to see the floor behind them as the crowd was dwindling. “I’ve got everything in there.”

“It will be found,” James said. “And handed in somewhere. You can pick it up when we return. Meanwhile you can use my phone.”

Sherlock turned to him. “Can I borrow it now?” he asked.

James nodded and reached into his pocket, but right then a woman waved them along.

“Please,” she said. “You must board now. We are about to close the gate.”

Resolutely, James pulled him forward, almost running down the narrow corridor to the walkway that led onto the plane.

Once they were seated, he got out his phone and handed it to Sherlock. “You better hurry,” he said. “You’ll have to turn it off in a few minutes.”

Sherlock nodded and dialled John’s number. He let it ring until it went to voicemail, then tried again. Frowning, he handed the phone back to James, just as the announcement started about switching mobiles and other electronic devices to fly mode.

James looked at him. “Something wrong?” he asked, taking Sherlock’s hand.

“Probably not,” Sherlock said, looking out the window.

 

...

 

James soon fell asleep, his head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. But Sherlock could not relax. He kept thinking about John. Something had been very wrong or he would not have been at the airport. He had seemed frantic, almost desperate, as he tried to tell Sherlock something. Something important. But there had been too much noise to hear what he said and he had been too far away for Sherlock to read his lips.

If only he had had his phone. He tried to remember the last time he had it. He remembered using it in the taxi on his way to James’ place, checking his mail. He was pretty sure he’d still had it when he got into James’ car, but did not remember feeling or seeing it since then. So logically it would still be in his car. At the parking lot at the airport. Well… At least it was safe there from being stolen and hacked. Unless the car was stolen or broken into, of course, but the security in the long-term lot was pretty high.

But it was definitely a problem that John could not reach him. Had not been able to reach him. Would John figure out that the two missed calls were from James’ phone and that he could reach Sherlock on that number? To him it seemed obvious, but sometimes John could be a bit… slow.

He sighed. He should have left a message, letting John know it was him who had been calling. He’d do that the moment they landed. Hopefully he’d reach John and find out what it had all been about. And if not, he’d leave him a message to get in touch as soon as he could.

There was nothing he could do now, and he tried to settle down for a nap, but sleep would not come. So he glanced around and soon knew the personality and history of all other passengers in his line of sight and all of the cabin crew. He considered trying to move so he could find new subjects, but James was leaning on him and he’d probably wake him if he tried to get out of his seat.

So he closed his eyes, resigned to several hours ahead of utter boredom.

James let out a single soft snore and Sherlock could not help but smile. Images of the night they had recently spent together drifted through his mind and these finally distracted him enough from his worries and boredom that he was able to drift into a light dose, filled with very pleasant half-dreams.

 

…

 

James yawned and stretched and Sherlock woke with a start. “What?” he muttered, looking around before rubbing his eyes. “Are we there yet?”

“Soon, love,” James said and leaned over to kiss him. “Just another hour or so.”

Sherlock yawned too. “I think I need the loo,” he said, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Can you maybe get me some tea or water?”

“Sure thing,” James said, pushing the button to summon a stewardess.

When Sherlock returned, James was looking up at him with an apologetic frown as he held out a bottle of apple juice. “She said they were out of water and they only had fruit tea. I wasn’t sure if you like fruit tea, so I got you this.” He bit his lip, clearly nervous that he had gotten it wrong.

Sherlock smiled and took the bottle as he sat down. “It’s fine,” he said, and then, as an afterthought, gave James a kiss.

“I… I opened it,” James said. “Once she handed it to me, I realised I was thirsty, so I took a sip. I hope that’s okay.”

Sherlock laughed, unscrewing the lid. “Of course it is,” he said. “Don’t be silly.” It turned out that apple juice was just what he needed and he finished off half the bottle in one go, making James laugh.

“You’ll be needing the loo again before we land, if you keep that up,” he said.

Sherlock laughed too.

They spent the rest of the flight discussing what they would do once they had checked into the hotel. Or rather, James discussed it. Sherlock was, once again, pondering what John could have been trying to tell him and why it had been so urgent.

The landing went smooth, but then they ended up waiting almost 45 minutes for their bags. James was fretting slightly, starting to seem a bit on edge. Sherlock couldn’t quite figure out what was wrong with him. He tried holding his hand and even kissing him, but for once both failed completely to calm the shorter man.

Finally they had their bags and went through customs. The heat outside was beginning to be noticeable even in the air conditioned arrival terminal and Sherlock wished he had some more juice. Or just some water. He looked around as they walked towards the exit, but couldn’t see any vending machines.

“Can… Can you walk a bit slower?” he asked James, feeling slightly faint.

James did not answer and it almost seemed as if he sped up.

Finally they were outside and stopped by the curb. Sherlock ran a hand over his eyes, trying to clear his head. “We… We should get a cab…” he said, his voice sounding oddly distant.

“That won’t be necessary,” James said, raising an arm and waving.

Sherlock frowned. If they didn’t take a cab, how would they get to the hotel? Who was James waving at? Surely he didn’t know anybody here.

But then a blue car, that was clearly not a cab, pulled up in front of them.

James opened the door to the back seat. “Get in… sweetheart,” he said with an odd smirk.

Something was wrong here, but right now Sherlock desperately needed to sit down, so he got in, beginning to move over so James could follow him. But to his surprise the door was closed, and a moment later, James got into the passenger seat.

“What…?” Sherlock said, his vision going slightly blurry.

James did not even look at him but leaned closer to the driver. And kissed him.

“Hello, Tiger,” he purred to the tall blond man behind the wheel.

“Hi, Kitten,” the man replied and then turned to look at Sherlock. “And hi to you too… Thomas,” he said with a wicked grin. “Boy, am I glad to see you.”


	12. Chapter 12

Jim giggled as the detective began to tilt to the side and then flopped down on the seat.

“Oops,” he said. “Must have had too much to drink.” He turned his attention back to Sebastian. “Fuck… I forgot how gorgeous you are.”

“I didn’t forget about you,” Sebastian said, his eyes meeting his boss’s. It had been months since they met in person, and Stevenson - or rather, Sherlock Holmes - had still been living with him. It was almost the same now, with Sherlock obviously being drugged, but somehow present as they… Sebastian licked his lips and let his expression show exactly what he wanted.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jim said. “Is your hotel close by?”

“Not close enough,” Sebastian grumbled, putting the car in gear. “How have you been?” he asked Jim as they drove away from the airport.

“Are you kidding?” Jim asked. “I’ve been having to put up with this dolt. And put out…”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “He’s pretty worthless in bed. You could as well take a blow-up doll.”

Jim giggled. “Oh, he’s not _that_ bad. A bit too eager and no real stamina. And for all his brains, he never did manage to find my p-spot.”

Sebastian turned his gaze away from the road. He knew Jim was winding him up, but he only managed too well. “Good thing too,” he said slowly. “That’s _my_ spot.”

“Still is, Tiger,” Jim said, leaning over to nibble on his earlobe. “As I said, little Sherly-girl wouldn’t have been able to find it with a flashlight and a GPS.”

Sebastian moved his head away from Jim’s mouth and looked ahead again. “He still touched my things. I’ll have to punish him. And reclaim certain territories.” It was good to finally have some goals to look forward to, rather than the emptiness of his long exile, but he wouldn’t show Jim too much of that. At least not too soon.

Jim glanced back at Sherlock. “I’m going to have to leave him with you for a day or two. Will you be doing... other reclaiming?”

“I’ll only give him a go if he deserves it,” Sebastian said. “But I hope to be satisfied by then.”

“Oi,” Jim said. “I have to be able to walk out of that hotel room. So maybe I should just let you blow off some steam with him.”

The more Sebastian heard of Jim’s voice, the more the desire had been growing, but now the familiar anger was also bubbling through his veins again and he clenched his jaw. “You’re not getting out of this.”

“As if I wanted to,” Jim purred, leaning over again and latching his lips onto Sebastian’s neck, just behind his ear. He reached over and put a hand on his thigh, slowly sliding it up towards his crotch.

As soon as Sebastian spotted a free parking space, he pulled over, busy road be damned.

Before the car had stopped, Jim was out of his seatbelt, crawling into Sebastian’s lap. “Do you have your knife?” he whispered in his ear.

“Pocket,” Sebastian said breathlessly, pulling up the handbrake before he grabbed Jim’s hair with both hands and kissed him hard.

Jim fumbled for the knife, then pressed it into Sebastian’s hand. “I want you to cut these ridiculous jeans off me,” he said. Then he found the lever that released the back of Sebastian’s seat and pulled it, sending them both down rather abruptly.

There was a loud bonk and a groan.

Sebastian snorted. “I think you hit our passenger,” he mumbled before he bit Jim’s bottom lip, flipping the knife open.

Jim giggled and lifted himself up slightly to make it easier for Sebastian. “Just do it,” he groaned. “I’ll go crazy if I don’t have you soon.”

“Only the fabric?” Sebastian asked while he put the knife against the jeans, close to Jim’s crotch. He was rock hard himself, far too impatient to tease him, but he needed to show his boss he still had some power over him, too.

Jim trembled. “For now…” he said. “Just the fabric. This time…”

Sebastian grabbed the front of Jim’s trousers just above the button, and in two quick zips of his hand had cut out a triangle of the jeans, which he threw onto the passenger seat. Then he did the same to Jim’s pants, leaving his cock free, and looked up at him.

Jim snarled and almost attacked Sebastian’s mouth, taking his free hand and shoving it between them. “Touch me,” he ordered. “Take what’s yours.”

Sebastian wrapped his hand around his cock to stroke him slowly and groaned. “I need…” he said, shifting, as his cock was straining painfully against the zipper of his own trousers.

Jim got a hold of Sebastian’s zipper and pulled it down, his hand trembling as he reached inside to grasp his cock. “I want you,” he moaned against his lips. “I need you.” He bit his lower lip and then pulled back to look at him. “Take me,” he said, his eyes wide and almost glowing with hunger.

Sebastian flicked the button of his trousers open and pushed them down a little, then pushed Jim’s jeans further down and pulled him close, so his cock almost touched between the cheeks of his arse. “You need to be naked next time,” he complained.

Suddenly Jim held completely still. His breathing went from ragged and fast to calm in less than a second as he straightened up and looked down at Sebastian. “Oh,” he said. “Would you rather we waited? Is this too inconvenient for you?”

“Fuck you,” Sebastian bit out, pulling him down onto his cock and thrusting up immediately.

Jim screamed in triumph and then sank his teeth into Sebastian’s neck.

“My Kitten,” Sebastian panted, moving so fast the seat creaked beneath him. “Never forget _who_ is in charge _when_.” He scratched his nails over the length of Jim’s back.

Jim whimpered. “You are, Tiger,” he muttered, sucking on the skin he had just bruised. “You are.”

Sebastian groaned and tried to pull him down even further, biting into the fabric covering Jim’s shoulder. “ _Mine_.”

Suddenly there was a knock on the window. Jim turned his head, frowning, and Sebastian stilled his movements. Outside was a cop, trying to look through the tinted glass.

“¿Qué está pasando aquí?” the man said.

Jim looked at Sebastian, grinning, and then rolled down the window.

“How can we help you, officer?” he asked brightly, giggling at the man’s shocked expression as he took in the sight.

Sebastian winked at the man. “Just come a little closer,” he said in a conspiratorial voice, beckoning him with his head.

The officer frowned and shook his head.

“No? Pity.” Sebastian grabbed his gun from the door compartment and before the man could even have turned to run, he had shot him through the head. He rolled his eyes at Jim. “Who does he think he is?”

Jim didn’t seem to really hear him. He was staring wide eyed at the spot where the man had been a moment before. Then he turned to look at Sebastian, his face covered in a thin spray of blood. “Oh, Tiger…” he said, his voice breaking as he suddenly came, trembling and clenching around Sebastian so hard it almost hurt.

“Only for you,” Sebastian whispered, kissing Jim’s neck as he started his thrusts again, even more forceful than before, and it wasn’t long before he too was coming, Jim’s still tightening muscles helping him over the edge.

Jim slumped against him, panting hard. “Oh, Tiger,” he whispered. “You are magnificent.”

“I know, Kitten,” Sebastian muttered, not quite come down from his orgasm. “I missed you.” He stroked Jim’s hair for a moment, before pushing him off onto the passenger seat and pulling his own seat upright again. “People are noticing that dead cop. We should go.”

Jim giggled and nodded, half lying in his seat, looking up at Sebastian with undisguised adoration. “We should,” he agreed. “Back to your hotel. I want to fuck you before the blood dries.”


	13. Chapter 13

John’s plan to fly right after Sherlock was thwarted by one minor detail: the next flight to Mexico was in almost six hours. His heart sank as he was staring at the notice board. He couldn’t wait that long without doing anything. He had to think of something to check James’ identity, so he could warn the authorities if what he thought was true.

He took a cab to Scotland Yard and made a call on the way there. “DI Lestrade? It’s John Watson, Sherlock’s flatmate. There is something I need to ask you. Sherlock may be in danger.”

It took some convincing before Lestrade agreed to send a team to 221B to take DNA samples and fingerprints. Clearly the DI cared about Sherlock and was a little alarmed by John’s concern, but he kept asking him if he really thought that Sherlock, of all people, who had never even shown interest in dating anyone as long as Lestrade knew him, would make the mistake to trust someone like that.

John kept hoping he was wrong, but it was all they could do to find out.

It had taken him a moment to get the idea, but the way to confirm – or hopefully refute – his suspicions had been obvious, really. Sherlock would have thought of it right away, but then of course he didn’t think his boyfriend was a deranged killer running a criminal network. John himself still had difficulty believing that the sweet, somewhat unconfident man could play a role that well. Even though John had not trusted James from the start, he had been won over. He had even comforted the man when Sherlock had been tactless. But Moran’s boss had made one mistake. He had killed Jane Levington with his bare hands and teeth. And Sherlock’s bed would certainly hold samples of James Murphy’s DNA. It was easy enough to check.

After the team had taken what they needed at Sherlock’s flat, Lestrade saw how John was fidgeting and invited him to wait for the results at the Yard, so they could talk things over and John could explain to him why Sherlock had wanted to go to Mexico in the first place. John was happy to accept. It would at least distract him a little, and it would make the time go faster until the next plane took off.

 

As the DI got back to work, John was left with a cup of coffee in a corridor close to his office. At one point, Sally Donovan walked past and gave him a too-sympathetic look, but he just rolled his eyes at her. He was far too impatient to deal with her remarks. Too often, he glanced at his watch, counting the hours, and the coffee did not help to make him feel at ease.

“Everything alright?” Lestrade asked when he saw him glare at his phone in frustration.

“It’s still over six hours until they land,” John shrugged. “I just don’t know what to do.”

Lestrade smiled. “I guess we can’t do much until we know James Murphy really is who you think he is. They’re running the tests.”

“I know,” John sighed, biting his lip.

“I’m never going to let Sherlock forget about it if you were right and he was dating a criminal without knowing,” Lestrade said, clearly trying to lighten John’s mood.

John nodded with an attempt to answer his smile. “I just really hope I’m wrong. Otherwise we don’t know what is going to happen to him...”

“He can take care of himself,” the DI said confidently, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “You know, I really admire how you still take care of Sherlock even though he’s with someone else. I don’t think I could have done it when I first found out my wife was cheating on me. I know it’s different if you’re not really involved, but...”

John stared at him. “Er. I’m not in love with Sherlock, if that’s what you think. We’re just friends.”

“Oh.” Lestrade genuinely looked surprised. “I thought... I mean, the looks you sometimes give him...”

John raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with the looks I give him?”

“Nothing’s exactly _wrong_ with them... It just looked like... you really admire him.” Lestrade shrugged, looking a little embarrassed.

“He’s a genius,” John said, frowning. “I do look up to what he does. I don’t know why everyone lately seems to think that that means I want to be in a relationship with him. I’m not gay.”

“Sorry,” Lestrade mumbled. “Well, back to work. I’ll let you know as soon as I get a call from the lab, okay?”

 

It did not take long before the report finally came in. The DNA matching would need more time, but at least the fingerprints could tell them something, if only they had been clear enough both at the crime scene and the flat. From where John was sitting, he could hear the phone ring inside the office. He got up from the uncomfortable chair and entered as soon as he heard that Lestrade had put down the phone, without even knocking.

“And?” he asked.

“Match,” Lestrade sighed, shaking his head.

John closed his eyes for a moment, then turned on his heels and strode out of the corridor. By the time he was outside to hail a cab, the DI caught up with him.

“Wait!” he called. “You can’t go after him on your own. I know you want to protect Sherlock, but... that man he is with, is a monster.”

John sighed. “I can’t leave Sherlock alone with him. We may already be too late.” And he ignored Lestrade’s further protests as he got into the cab.

...

 

This time, John was clever enough to let them frisk him at security after the buzzer went off, but then of course he still had more than enough time left before departure. After leaving the police station, he had made a stop home to pick up a few things and then left straight for the airport, unable to stay in place any longer. As he sat waiting to board, he was trying to decide what to do when he arrived in Mexico. He knew the name of the hotel that Sherlock had booked for himself and James, so that was a good point to start. Still, he wondered if James would even let them get there. And then where would John go to look for them? The city was of course gigantic, and he didn’t have a clue where to start, or if they would even stay there.

Reluctantly, he took his phone and found Mycroft’s number. He might not _like_ to speak to him, but better this than regretting not doing it later.

“Ah, Dr Watson,” Mycroft’s voice sounded after the first ring. “I thought I might hear from you soon.”

John frowned. “You did?”

“Of course. Gregory called me two hours ago to explain what was going on.”

“Gregory?” John hated it when every word just brought more confusion, but it was something the Holmes brothers were very good at.

“DI Gregory Lestrade,” Mycroft explained, in that horrible overbearing way of his. “Didn’t he introduce himself? Bad manners indeed.”

John bit back a biting remark as Mycroft continued, “We will send a team to Mexico, but Moriarty must have planned this well. It is a lot harder to trace my brother there than it would be here. Not as many security cameras to take over, for a start.”

“It was Sherlock’s idea to go there,” John pointed out.

“And you don’t think he might have been a little influenced by his dear James?”

Of course. John decided to get back on topic. “I’m going after them.”

“You shouldn’t,” Mycroft said. “If...”

“Yeah, I know,” John interrupted him. “You can’t stop me.”

“I am sure I can, but I won’t. As you said, there are more urgent things to do. Bringing Jenny Smith to safety, for a start.”

“Why would she be unsafe? Sherlock just wanted to question her. I can understand you don’t want that to happen under these circumstances, but...”

“Moriarty might also be quite interested in what she has to say,” Mycroft said calmly. “If only to sell the information. And his means of interrogation might be less… pleasant. It’s the best hope we have, though. I believe he might leave Sherlock unharmed until they have travelled to Australia together. Yet we can’t be certain.”

“Did you know?” John asked, frowning.

“Did I know what?” Mycroft said politely.

“About James. That he’s Moran’s boss. Moriarty.”

“Ah.” There was a short pause. “Don’t you think I would have warned Sherlock if I knew?”

“Not if there was any advantage to you if you didn’t,” John said.

“Fair enough,” Mycroft answered. “We did a background check, but he had done his homework. James Murphy might have worked for Moran, but it looked like it was indeed a temporary mistake in his life. I should not have had as much faith in humanity to believe that he and Sherlock were indeed improving each other’s choices. It will not happen again and I will upgrade our future background checks.”

John huffed. “This one time it would actually have been useful.”

“I apologise, John. Do tell him when you have the chance.”

John ended the call and groaned. Then, as an afterthought, he sent a text to Sarah to let her know he couldn’t get to the hospital for a few days. He was ready to leave.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, this chapter causes the urge to say the obvious: please do check the warnings and tags.

The first sound Sherlock heard was a giggle somewhere to his right. Immediately after, something blunt poked hard between his ribs and made him twitch. It felt bruised, as if the same had happened a few times before.

"Wakey wakey," a voice said, lower than the one that had giggled. "You're no fun like this, Sherly." The finger stabbed him again.

Sherlock grunted, trying to figure out what was up. His eyes were hurting, so he'd rather not open them to what seemed to be fairly bright light.

He was uncomfortable. He must have fallen asleep on the sofa again. "Leave me alone," he muttered. Why was John bothering him? He was always going on about him needing to rest. Well, now he was resting, so John ought to leave him to it.

"Leave you alone?" the familiar, low voice said, way too close to his ear. "That's not what you said last time. When you were falling asleep on me."

"Huh?" That last statement did not make sense. After a brief internal struggle, Sherlock managed to force one eye open. A moment later he was wide awake. "You... What...?" he shrieked, scrambling to get up.

Moran chuckled. "Dear James didn't tell you I'd come too, then." He reached out his hand and took James' arm, pulling him closer.

Sherlock stared at James. "What?" he said again, his brain struggling to clear itself of a fog that could only be chemically induced. "But... You no longer work for him. You... You weren't lying..." This couldn't be right. No one could lie to him. Not for that long or about something so big. Especially not sweet, bright, naive James...

Who did not look quite as sweet when he smiled at Sherlock. "No, I did not lie," he said. "In fact, I never worked for Sebby."

Moran shook his head and placed a possessive arm around James' waist, looking down on him. "That would be the world turned upside down."

Upside down? So James was not working for... Sherlock gasped with a realisation that quickly turned into panic. "No..." he whispered. "You can't be..."

James grinned and bowed. "James Moriarty," he said. "Hi..." He giggled. "Friends call me Jim, but I'm not sure you qualify."

James leaned on Moran, resting his head on the taller man's shoulder. Everything about this seemed so wrong to Sherlock. And yet... It seemed to make a sick kind of sense.

"He sure doesn't qualify as _my_ friend," Moran said. "Lying to me, being a bad fuck and then touching what is mine?" He glared at Sherlock, then forced Moriarty's chin up and gave him a rough kiss.

James clearly didn’t object to the kiss nor the possessive attitude.

But Sherlock had already known that Moran's relationship with his boss was not just professional. And yet, never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined that the man behind those cuts and bruises could have been James.

His James with the soft kisses and gentle eyes.

Moran looked back at Sherlock. "Problem? You never shut up when you lived with me, but now you're sitting there like a fish on dry land."

Sherlock tried for a wry smile. "What's there to say? You've fooled me. Completely. And now you've got me. I suppose you want to finish the job, kill me."

James giggled. "Oh no... Dear. Not just yet. I've promised Sebastian he could have his fun first."

"He's just being boring," Moran sighed, brushing his lips against Moriarty's hair. "I don't know how you managed to keep up the act for so long."

James smiled and turned his head to look up at him. "I just thought of you, Tiger. And all the wonderful things you'd do when you found out that I'd let Holmes fuck me."

He turned to Sherlock. "You really were a lot hornier than I'd thought you'd be," he said. "I wasn't sure we'd ever get beyond the blowjobs."

"Must have been quite frustrated," Moran shrugged, looking Sherlock up and down while he was placing his comments. "Never let himself enjoy what I did to him. I guess he doesn't fall for tall and muscled."

Sherlock would have loved to be able to make a scathing remark here, but the words made him realise that he _had_ fallen for someone. That he had really cared about James.

A lump formed in his throat and he looked away. He had always suspected that Mycroft was right. But to have it proved to him in such a painful manner.... It was almost more than he could bear.

_Never again_ , a small voice whispered inside him. _I will never let my emotions get the better of me again._

"Well, since we've all finally been introduced properly, I guess it's time you leave," Moran told Moriarty, before kissing him again. "You've got a plane to catch."

Leave? Sherlock kept his eyes down but listened more intently.

"Yes," James said with a dramatic sigh. "I'll leave you with your new shiny toy. I wonder if you'll even still be interested in little old me when I return."

"You know I'd have you again right now if we had the time," Moran purred. "But fortunately I have your marks to remind me of you." He straightened his shirt, which carried a small red-brown spot at the height of his left nipple.

James groaned and leaned in for a heated kiss. Then he left.

Sherlock did not dare move. Any moment now, Moran would turn his focus on him and the only thing he could be certain of, was that it would be bad. Really bad.

"So. Alone again." Moran's expression already seemed a little darker now his boss had left the room.

"Yes," Sherlock muttered, feeling even more ill at ease as he found himself drifting back into the voice and bearing of Thomas Stevenson when he had been trapped at Moran's flat. It was like he was back. Only, this time things were infinitely worse. This time, Moran knew who he was. And he clearly had no other plans than revenge. Revenge for his months spent in exile and revenge for Sherlock having, unknowingly, slept with his lover.

"I just can't decide what to do with you first," Moran told him. "Of course, _my_ Jim already made a few suggestions, but what should we do first? Do _you_ have anything in mind?"

Sherlock shook his head. Nothing this man would want to do with him seemed like a good idea to him. Except perhaps killing him quickly, and that had already been taken off the table.

"No? Still too sleepy to think much? Then perhaps we should wake you up."

"Or you could put me back to sleep," Sherlock muttered, figuring he probably couldn't make things any worse than they already were.

"Eventually," Moran nodded, walking around the chair Sherlock was tied to, until he was standing behind him. "I'm not going to babysit all the time while Jim is chasing kangaroos."

Sherlock's insides turned to ice. James was going to Australia. There could be only one reason for this. He was going after Jenny Smith. Which meant that... He'd been in on this case the whole time. And he... Oh god... Sherlock groaned. He had let him see Mycroft's secret files. All of them. Jim Moriarty, the worst criminal of them all, and Sherlock had practically handed him his brother on a golden plate.

"So tense?" Moran stroked one fingertip down the back of his neck.

Sherlock shivered and tried to pull away. Why was even the slightest touch from this man so repulsive?

Moran chuckled and flipped his knife open. After he had cut the back of Sherlock's shirt open, he folded the two flaps of fabric aside like wings and studied his back.

"Hmm... Not many scars from last time. That's disappointing. I was looking forward to cutting them all open again, but… I guess I'll just have to make new ones."

Sherlock tensed, flinching at every touch. His instinct was to beg, but he did not want to give the man the pleasure. Right now, his only defence was to try to make Moran grow bored with him so he'd either leave him alone or at least finish the job. Moran got off on fear and pain. Sherlock could do nothing to avoid the pain, but he'd be damned if he showed him any fear.

He heard how Moran sat down on the mattress behind him. Then cold steel slowly stroked a line under his shoulderblade, before the man pressed through and the first small cut was made.

Sherlock could not suppress a hiss of pain as his skin was broken and he felt a thin hot trickle of blood down over his skin. How long would James be gone? A day at least. Maybe more. He wondered what state he'd be in when he returned.

Moran kept making cuts and enjoying Sherlock's reactions for over half an hour, before he finally cleaned the knife and got up. "That's better. Do you want to know what it says?" As he didn't immediately get a reaction, he gave Sherlock an almost friendly slap against his temple. "Hey, Holmes?"

After the first couple of minutes, Sherlock had managed to retreat into his mind palace, only partially feeling what was being done to his body. But now he was drawn out and the pain hit him full force. He gasped. "Why... Why should I care?" he muttered.

Moran shrugged. "Thought you might like to know which message there is on your back. I'll show you anyway." He took his phone from his pocket and snapped a picture of his back, then pushed it under Sherlock's nose, almost too close to focus.

' _Jim is mine_ ,' big bloody letters said.

Sherlock actually managed a snort. "You do realise that since it's written on me, people might think it means that he is _mine,_ right?"

"Should anyone ever see you again, I guess you're right," Moran nodded. "So shall I clarify it a little?"

Sherlock shrugged. "If it amuses you," he said. "It's not like I'm in a position to stop you, right?"

Moran smirked. "I'm glad you realise. But I'll leave it for later. When the rest has dried. I think I want some variation."

Sherlock sighed. He doubted that he'd like this new 'variety' any better than what Moran had been dishing out so far.

"When was the last time you slept with Jim?" Moran asked.

Sherlock thought back. "Sunday," he said, wondering where this was going.

Moran raised an eyebrow. "That's almost a week. You must be gagging for it."

"Not really," Sherlock said, shrugging in spite of the pain it caused him. "As you may recall, I don't really care for such things."

"As I recall, you are a horny bastard who's had his claws on my boss far too many times." Moran started loosening the rope that tied Sherlock's arms to the back of the chair, holding his hands in an iron grip, and then immediately tied them back together behind his back, but this time free from the chair. He gave Sherlock a hard push between his shoulderblades and he fell forward, his feet still attached to the chair.

Sherlock twisted so that his shoulder would take the impact with the floor rather than his face, but the pain was still enough to make him cry out before he could stop himself.

"It wasn't... many..." he gasped. "Nothing like... what you did with... me..."

"Shut up," Moran hissed. "If I want your pathetic whining, I'll ask for it. And don't even think of moving." He crouched and yanked Sherlock's trousers and pants off his arse with a few quick tugs.

Sherlock stayed in the awkward and humiliating position. When Moran had taken him in the past, he had made an effort to be prepared. This time it was going to hurt real bad. He had not had anything inside him since he had escaped from Moran and that was many months ago.

Desperately, he tried to use all his willpower and concentration to force his muscles to relax. To loosen enough that there, at least, wouldn't be any damage.

 

...

 

When Moran was finished with Sherlock, he secured him back on the chair, not bothering to pull up Sherlock’s trousers, his ruined shirt taken away, and the rope painfully tight around his wrists. He walked away from Sherlock, and a few moments later the detective heard him turn on the water in the shower.

Sherlock shifted a little in the chair, but could not find any position that wasn't painful. He kept his eyes focused, trying to withdraw again, and finally managed to drift away into a state that was not quite sleep but the best he could hope for under the circumstances.

It was quite a while before he heard Moran moving around the bed again, but he didn't touch Sherlock. Then he heard the bed creak slightly as Moran sat down on it, picked up the phone on the nightstand and ordered room service. Sherlock listened intently, trying to get as much information he could from the brief conversation.

Once Moran had put down the phone, he got up from the bed again and walked towards Sherlock.

Sherlock tensed slightly, but did not move. Feigning sleep probably wouldn't make a difference, but he might as well give it a shot.

Moran snorted and pushed lightly against his shoulder.

"Go away," Sherlock muttered.

Moran chuckled. "Not pretending to sleep anymore, then?" He pushed a little harder this time.

Sherlock sighed. "No," he said. "So you can stop that."

"Nah," Moran said. "I have to move you, anyway."

"Move me?" Sherlock looked up at him. "Move me where?"

"Just the bathroom," Moran shrugged. "In case you’re thinking of being clever when they bring my dinner. Shame you're not as skinny as you used to be when you were on the coke." He turned the chair Sherlock was sitting on, tilted it backwards and dragged it with him, leaving him next to the shower.

Sherlock smiled a little at those words. John had actually remarked on his change in appearance too. But _he_ thought his weight gain was a good thing.

"Could you at least untie me then, so I could use the toilet? Maybe have a shower?" he asked. "I mean, it's not like I can get out of here with you right on the other side of the door."

Moran looked amused. "No." He turned on the shower, then took a scarf and bound it in front of Sherlock's mouth. It smelled of James - of Moriarty. "There. Now with any sounds you make, they can only think you're singing in the shower. I'll come find you when they're gone. Don't let the spattering water get to your bladder." He moved out and shut the door behind him.

Sherlock tried to distract himself from the sound, but now that Moran had mentioned it, he could not shut it out. He tried calling out, but could only mutter through the gag.

 

It was almost half an hour later when he could finally hear voices in the room, and Moran chuckling. Another five minutes later, the bathroom door finally opened. "Come, you can watch me eat!" Moran said.

"Unless you want to watch me urinate while you eat," Sherlock said with a strained smile, "I suggest you let me use the toilet first."

Moran sighed. "Do you _have_ to be so disgusting?" He grabbed the chair and tilted Sherlock over the toilet.

Sherlock snorted painfully. "If you don't want me to be disgusting on your feet, you better give me a hand."

"Oh, so now you _want_ me to touch your cock?" Moran chuckled. "Jim really made you needy, gee. Better hurry up, my food is getting cold."

Once Sherlock had done his business, Moran actually did the effort of pulling up his trousers and then dragged him along. Sherlock’s back hurt like hell when Moran moved him, but he bit back any sounds of discomfort.

"Are you going to give me any food?" he asked.

"Are you hungry?" Moran asked.

"Not particularly," Sherlock said, truthfully. "But if you plan on keeping me alive for long, I'll need some kind of nourishment. And definitely some fluids."

"Oh, you can have some water. And perhaps a leftover, but I'm hungry, so I wouldn't count on it." Moran sat down and took the cover off the plate.

Sherlock nodded. As long as Moran was eating, he wasn't hurting him, so that was good.

 

…

 

Sherlock spluttered and coughed. "You really get off on all this sadistic stuff, don't you?" he asked when he was able to breathe again.

"What?" Moran asked. "I thought you were thirsty. You should have swallowed faster." Again, he tilted the glass of water against Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock waited until he could speak again. "You know what I mean," he said. "Causing pain and fear. You love it. Embarrassment too, maybe. Or do you prefer being the one who is humiliated?"

Moran snorted and put down the glass. "Good luck trying to humiliate me from your position. Or from any position. I know which one of us is the pathetic one."

Sherlock smiled. "Oh, that's not my thing anyway. I was thinking of James. You let him slap you around and even cut you up. Even though you could easily snap him in two, so you must really like it."

"And how's that any of your business?" Moran asked, raising an eyebrow. "Trying to find out how you can win your James back?"

Sherlock laughed. "I wouldn't touch him now. I'm just trying to figure it out. Why he beats you up, but with me he was meek and gentle as a... kitten. I mean, I just had to scratch him behind the ear and he'd go down on me."

Moran slapped him with the back of his hand. "Don't you call him that," he hissed.

Sherlock grinned. "Oh right... That's your special name for him, isn't it? Does he purr for you too? When he's face down for a long lazy fuck." Then Sherlock made an exaggerated frown. "Oh no, you probably don't do that. It's all about pain and thrills with you two, isn't it?"

Moran kicked over the chair, making Sherlock fall hard on his back. "Shut up."

Sherlock cried out in surprise. "Damn it. I'm not into all that shit," he spat. "Save it for... Jim..."

Moran kicked his ribs. "Shut - the fuck - up."

Sherlock did as he was told. For almost two minutes. " _Do_ you like it?" he asked, softly. "Because there was a time... when you and I were... living together. I got the feeling that you were angry over the things he did to you."

Moran rolled his eyes, then looked down at Sherlock. "I was only angry about having a brat like _you_ around me all the time. And I'm beginning to see why. You really didn't learn, did you?"

Sherlock chuckled. It was pretty painful and he suspected he had a broken rib.

"That depends," he said. "What were you trying to teach me?"


	15. Chapter 15

Sebastian had to hold himself back to not knock Holmes’ lights out forever. But he had learned from what had happened in Tórshavn. And he knew Jim still needed that moron later. So two well-aimed punches and hitting his head back against the floor for good measure would do for now. Holmes was unconscious, and Sebastian just left him on his back on the chair. It would hurt like hell in the morning; both the pressure on the wounds and the uncomfortable position that would surely make his muscles burn with every small movement. Served him right for all his meddling. Although it still wasn’t punishment enough for fucking Jim, but Sebastian would have him to himself until the next afternoon. By that time, Holmes was probably going to be relieved at seeing Jim. Sebastian chuckled to himself.

He lay down on the bed and put the telly on for a while, but soon decided he could as well go to sleep. The bed still smelled of his Kitten and it made his cock stir, but not enough to urgently have to act on it. It would get its share tomorrow.

 

…

 

He woke up early and checked on Holmes when he returned from the bathroom. The detective didn’t seem to have moved and was still unconscious or asleep, but he was breathing, so Sebastian praised himself for having done a good job there. He sent Jim a short text to check if everything was going according to plan, and then looked Sherlock over to decide what he would do next. Soon enough, he had an idea, and he pushed the chair back on its legs, barely making the man stir. Then he sat behind it on the bed, like he had done the day before when he made the little artwork on his back, chose a hair on the back of Holmes’ head and pulled it out. He repeated the action, careful to avoid actually touching the skin over Holmes’ skull, and quite a few dark hairs had already fallen to the floor by the time he got a reaction.

“Ouch,” Sherlock muttered and then groaned.

Sebastian snorted and plucked out a couple of hairs at once.

“Have you sunken to the level of schoolyard bullying now?” Sherlock complained.

Sebastian shrugged. “It’s working, so why wouldn’t I?”

Sherlock sighed. “I suppose it could be worse,” he said, sounding rather resigned.

“Oh, don’t set your hopes on me limiting myself to this for the rest of the day,” Sebastian chuckled. “In fact, now you’re awake, we can get to more interesting parts. But I’ll get you some water first.”

This time, he just let him drink decently, remembering the effects the feeling of false security had had on Holmes in the past. It would only crush him again, and that was just perfect. He even dragged him to the bathroom to let him use the toilet in the same uncomfortable and humiliating way as the day before, and then returned the chair to its old position.

He took the knife and sat down again. “There’s something I should finish, right?”

“Not necessarily,” Sherlock said, starting to seem a little more alert.

“No, I insist. After you’ve been so good to point out the possible misunderstandings my message could evoke…” He quickly cut a line and then ‘ _SEB_ ’ in large letters on the small of Sherlock’s back, deeper than the earlier cuts had been.

“There, much better,” Sebastian nodded to himself. “But of course an artist is never happy about his work. Yesterday’s can use a little perfecting.”

Holmes made a small sound that might have been a whimper. “Why bother?” he asked.

“Because it’s fun,” Sebastian grinned, and he put the knife back on the skin, tracing each of the almost-dried wounds in turn.

By the end of it, Holmes was sweating and trembling, but had not spoken again.

“Well done,” Sebastian said, patting his shoulder, knowing it would make pain shoot through his whole back. “You’ll get a treat.”

“Woohoo,” Holmes whispered.

Sebastian snorted. “Exactly. Anything you’d like?”

“I suppose a ticket home to England is too much to ask?” He was clearly trying to sound casual.

“Yes,” Sebastian said, getting up to stand in front of him. “But I’ve got something _much_ better.”

“Painkillers?” Sherlock suggested.

Sebastian grinned widely. “My cock.”

 

…

 

By the time Sebastian finally heard Jim’s key in the lock, he had fucked Sherlock twice, half drowned him in the shower, punched him a few times and _still_ managed to get bored. He quickly walked to the door to meet his boss with a kiss.

The kiss was brief, however, as Jim was rather distracted by the young woman he was holding on to, who was squirming to get free of the pair of handcuffs and trying to scream through the gag over her mouth.

“Brought another toy?” Sebastian winked.

“She’s not for you,” Jim said, pushing his way past him into the room, dragging the girl along. “She’s business.” He looked over at Sherlock, who was back in place in front of the bed, and frowned. “You’ve been busy,” he said, pushing the girl towards the bathroom. He gave a hard shove that sent her tumbling to the floor. As she was unable to use her hands to break the fall, her head hit the floor with an audible crack.

“Oops,” Jim said, giggling. Then he turned to Sebastian and jumped up, wrapping his arms and legs around him, kissing him hungrily.

Sebastian pulled him up with his hands on his arse and kissed him back with equal passion, carrying him to the bed until he could safely lower him to the mattress. “Can I have you now?” he asked hoarsely.

“I do believe you’ve had plenty,” Jim said, grinning. “I think it’s your turn to receive, don’t you?”

“As long as it’s you.” Sebastian ground his crotch down against Jim’s. “Now.”

“Then I suggest you strip,” Jim said, pushing up against him.

Sebastian straightened his back, stepped a little back and eagerly opened his trousers.

Jim sat up and began taking off his own jacket when he suddenly stopped, frowning.

"What is that?" he said, standing up and walking over to Sherlock. "My, my. Haven't you been creative? And possessive..." When he looked up, his eyes seemed darker. A lot darker.

"You like it?" Sebastian asked, feeling a little breathless, and very aroused.

Jim ran a gentle finger down Sherlock's back, making him flinch. "I'm not sure," he said. "It kind of sounds like you think you own me."

"Certain parts of you," Sebastian said. "You're the boss... But I'm the Tiger."

"I see." Jim turned to look at him again. "Where's the knife?" he asked.

"Over there. It's clean now, but I guess his wounds will infect nicely," Sebastian pointed.

"If given the time," Jim said, going over to pick up the knife. He looked Sebastian up and down, smiling. "So... You're my Tiger?" he said, approaching him slowly.

"Yes. I am," Sebastian nodded, his heart beating fast.

"Let's make it more obvious then," he said, running the knife down Sebastian's upper arm, drawing a thin, curving, red line. "A real Tiger needs some stripes, right?" he asked.

Sebastian gasped. "Yes. You're probably right."

"Of course I am," Jim said, starting a new line next to it.

Sebastian had to suppress his groans as Jim worked his way from his arm, across his chest, to the other arm and then his back, drawing long horizontal lines that were stinging just right. Just when it was on the verge of becoming unpleasant, Jim stopped.

"Now please fuck me," Sebastian said impatiently.

Jim nodded. "On your knees," he said. "Face to the floor." He moved around to stand behind him, pulling his own trousers down.

Sebastian obeyed, but grinned up at Sherlock for a moment. "Now you'll see how Jim really is. Why you could never mean anything to him."

Jim giggled and then gave Sebastian's arse a hard smack. "Shut up, Tiger," he said. "Or I'll let Sherlock fuck you instead."

Sebastian groaned, quickly shutting his mouth. The thought was just repulsive.

Jim laughed as he got into position. "That's better," he said, pushing into Sebastian hard and fast.

Sebastian couldn't hold back a small moan.

"Careful, Tiger," Jim said, giving him another smack. "He's right there and I may use him." He began rolling his hips slowly, digging his fingers into Sebastian's hips.

Jim kept going so slowly that Sebastian began to suspect that he was hoping he would slip up, but he managed to keep quiet, just breathing heavily in pleasure. He hoped Jim didn't _really_ want to see Sherlock fuck him, but he wasn't going to give him an excuse.

The cuts were stinging and he gasped as Jim smeared his hand through the blood, almost making him come. He greedily pushed back against him.

"Patience, Tiger. Patience," Jim said, in his most teasing sing-song voice. "I want to enjoy this view of you. You look so pretty like this."

It was all Sebastian could to do stay silent, but he managed, wishing Jim would accelerate his pace.

Finally Jim finished with a soft groan. He held still for a while, then pulled out and walked over to the bed. As he flopped down, he made a dismissive sort of wave in Sherlock's direction. "Put that in the bathroom," he said. "I need sleep and I don't want any kind of disturbance."

Sebastian nodded, still not daring to say a word, but he was far past wanting to come. He _needed_ it.

Obediently, he moved the chair with Sherlock, kicked over the young woman's arm so he would have room to put it down, and locked the bathroom door behind him. Then he returned to Jim, kneeled in front of the bed and gave him a questioning look.

Jim giggled, then rolled over onto his stomach. "Go ahead," he said. "But make it a quicky. I really do need to sleep."

Sebastian sighed in relief and quickly climbed on the bed. "Thank you, boss," he whispered in Jim's ear, before he lowered his body.


	16. Chapter 16

“Greg, it’s John. Did you find anything?” By the end of their last phone call, the DI had told John to call him by his first name, and somehow it felt reassuring not to have a complete stranger working on this, so John was glad to comply.

Greg answered him with a sigh. “I hope you realise what time it is,” he grumbled. “Mexican police wasn’t exactly keen on sharing information, it seemed. But there have been a few things in the last eight hours. Nothing like Levington, thank god, but there was this robbing -”

“Not their style,” John interrupted him. “Not when they have Sherlock. There must be more urgent things on their mind than a theft. We’re thinking more in the lines of quick kills, maybe torture.”

“Yeah, alright, let me finish.” Lestrade sounded a little annoyed, and John ordered himself to be more patient. After all the man had been willing to help him out, in spite of the early hour in Britain.

Lestrade listed a few other incidents, but where most sounded like common street criminality, one in particular caught John’s attention, as it had happened close to the airport. A police officer had approached a car and got shot, just like that. There even was a witness, but the killer simply had not cared, staying in the parking space for a short while longer before driving away. The windows had been tinted, so the witness had no idea what they looked like and had not dared to move closer to observe.

John asked for the details of the direction the car had taken, what it had looked like and if the license plate had been noted.

“It could just as well be some kind of settlement,” Greg told him after he had answered all of John’s questions. “We simply can’t know if it has anything to do with them.”

“I know, but it’s all we’ve got to go on. Keep looking,” John said, then, realising he was giving orders to a senior police officer, he added, “Please.”

“Don’t you think that Moriarty would keep a low profile?” Greg asked. “He must realise we are looking for them.”

“No.” John actually shook his head, even though it only earned him a strange look from a woman passing him on the pavement. “Moriarty doesn’t know we’ve seen through him. The Levington case has shown that subtlety isn’t always his forte. And if Moran would join them there…”

“But perhaps Moriarty won’t reveal his identity now. He might just keep up the boyfriend role with Sherlock. Then he wouldn’t be dangerous,” Lestrade said.

“As much as I wish that were true, I think there’s little chance,” John sighed. “How probable is it that he’d get Sherlock out of the country again on his own? I bet their whole relationship was set up to achieve exactly this. And Sherlock has been a threat to his organisation, proving the nature of an important pawn like Moran.”

Greg cleared his throat. “What… What if Sherlock knew?”

“What do you mean?” John frowned. “He’s an idiot sometimes, but letting Moran’s boss get to him like that, that’s too foolish even for him.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Greg sighed. “Sometimes we just can’t know with Sherlock. I trust him, but… What if he got attracted to the brilliance of Moriarty’s criminal activities? Pulling off a murder with his bloody _teeth_ and still being untraceable. It might have had its appeal to a mind like Sherlock’s…”

John rolled his eyes. “You’ve been talking to Donovan.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve had to. I’m working with her, remember.”

“Just pass on the details on that car to Mycroft, okay? And tell him to keep an eye on the airport, check if they are flying out of Mexico under a false identity. If he can do that.”

“He can,” Greg said. “I’ll contact him right away. But John… Don’t do anything stupid. I don’t actually believe Sally’s theory, but no one truly knows Sherlock, do we?”

John ended the call.

 

He was outraged. After so many cases Sherlock had solved for Lestrade, the policeman still believed that Sherlock would turn to criminal activities himself, for a pair of doe eyes? That was just ridiculous. Maybe the DI still didn’t know Sherlock, then, but John believed he had gotten a good idea of Sherlock’s character by now. And he just _felt_ that he was definitely in danger, but as Sherlock would have pointed out, that could hardly be considered evidence for the police to act on.

If only he had a clue where to start looking for Sherlock. Even though John had tried many times, Sherlock had never picked up his phone and didn’t even seem to have turned it back on after the flight. That just didn’t make sense. The detective couldn’t live five minutes without his phone. So either it was broken, or someone had taken it from him.

 

…

 

John had just gotten into a cab when his phone rang. He sighed when he saw the caller’s identity. Mycroft.

He told John that he had received Greg’s information, and apparently he had already sent people to Mexico, or had them there waiting for jobs all the time. By now they had gone to have a look at the hotel Sherlock had booked, but there had been no sign of him or James, and the receptionists had told them they had simply never shown up. Though John had somewhat expected that, it was a bad sign. Now Mycroft’s people would check the hotels in the area, and John didn’t have to worry about anything until they had located Moriarty and Sherlock.

Well, tough. John _was_ worrying. And he just wasn’t capable of sitting back and relaxing until Mycroft had taken care of everything. Still, finding a hotel and getting some rest, like Mycroft had ordered him to do, didn’t sound like an entirely horrible plan. During the whole flight, he had simply been fretting too much to sleep, but now he was growing too tired to be any use to Sherlock anyway. And he had made Mycroft promise to call him out of bed should they find them, as far as that promise was worth anything. Besides, no one had told him to get a hotel nearby. So he didn’t change the destination he had given the taxi driver before the call, and got out about two miles away from the location of the shooting. It was just a guess, of course, as he only knew a vague direction in which the witness had seen the car drive off, and it could have taken any turn after that. But it was as good a place to start his own investigation as any other, and if Mycroft thought he was going to do nothing, he was wrong.

 

John was indeed tired enough to manage a few hours sleep in a cheap hotel. In the morning he got to work, armed with a somewhat blurry picture of Moran from Afghanistan, and the pictures of Sherlock and “James”. He started with the bored middle-aged woman behind the desk of his own hotel, asking if she had seen anyone who looked like them. Of course, the answer was negative, but still he asked a few of the other guests as they came in. Using the same method, he went from hotel to hotel in the surrounding streets, also checking the private garages of the bigger hotels - the ones he could enter without a code or room key, anyway. Then, as he was walking out of the sixth hotel, which was a tall, white building with a lot of big windows, he was suddenly startled by a loud bang behind him. Turning around, he was just in time to see a hand being pulled away from the first window to the right of the entrance, the print still visible on the glass. He couldn’t quite see what was going on, as he was standing too close to the building to see further through the first floor window, but it seemed like a struggle between two men. After frowning for a moment, John rushed back inside.

“I _still_ don’t speak Spanish,” he said, wondering for a moment at the young receptionist who didn’t seem to recognise him from five minutes earlier and started his welcoming speech all over again. “Please, I think someone is being attacked in one of your rooms.”

It took some convincing that what he had seen out there could be serious, before the man came along to the first floor with a stack of key cards.

“This one?” he asked as they approached the door, and John nodded. A muffled scream could be heard just then, and the man knocked urgently on the door.

Everything seemed to go quiet in the room, and he knocked again.

To John’s surprise, a giggle sounded inside, and a moment later a fit young man in a white dressing gown opened the door, slightly out of breath.

“Yes, is there a problem?” he asked. His accent was American and he looked nothing like Moriarty, or Sherlock for that matter.

“We thought… It looked like there was a fight in here,” John stammered, trying not to wince. Behind the American, on the bed, he could see a man and a woman, pulling up a blanket over their bodies and laughing softly.

“Oh,” the man in the door opening grinned. “We might have been playing a little rough, but I assure you nothing violent is going on here. Just a bit of fun between friends. You’re welcome to check if I’m speaking the truth, though.” He tilted his head back to the room and winked at the receptionist, who was looking bored. Then he went back in and closed the door behind him.

The receptionist gave John an accusing look. “Maybe it would be better if you minded your own business in the future, sir.”

“I’m really sorry,” John said, awkwardly biting his lip. “I am looking for my friend, and I thought...”

The receptionist cut him off by shaking his head and walking away.

 

It was impossible to shake off the embarrassment. He had just been too paranoid, and now he began to see reason in Mycroft’s request that he stayed out of it. It was too personal to John to be able to think rationally in his search for Sherlock. He began to spot murderers everywhere. Deciding it could only help accelerate matters, knowing which hotels he had already checked, he called Mycroft to inform him.

The elder Holmes’ derisive snort didn’t exactly make him feel better about himself.

“We really don’t expect them to have taken lodgings somewhere that close to the incident with the police officer,” Mycroft said, and John could almost hear him roll his eyes. “My people are looking further away. Last night they started in the region where the car has last been spotted. And as I said, I will contact you as soon as they know more. Stay out of it, John. You’re only attracting attention to yourself.”

 

After that, John had no choice but to return to his shabby hotel, feeling miserable and frustrated. But then, how was he supposed to be of use if Mycroft didn’t even keep him posted with all the available information, like that last viewing of the rental car involved with the shooting?

The earlier embarrassment kept him from going out to continue his quest until the next morning, but shortly after he had got out of bed, he simply snapped and grabbed his phone.

“Have you found them?” he snarled at Mycroft.

“I would have called if we had,” the calm answer came.

“Then let me help. Tell me what the most probable area is to find them, from what you’ve learned. I can’t just sit here while Moriarty has his paws on Sherlock,” John said.

“Pray tell me, Dr Watson,” Mycroft said, “why does it seem so important to you to find my brother yourself?”

John was a little taken aback. “It’s not about _who_ finds him,” he answered. “I just want him to be found. Before... before it’s too late. We’ve seen what Moriarty and Moran have done in the past. To think of Sherlock in that position... But I’m here, doing nothing, while I could be useful.”

“You think my people aren’t efficient enough?”

“Give it a break, Mycroft,” John sighed. “I just want Sherlock to be safe.”

“You still haven’t given me a reason to trust you,” Mycroft said.

Now John was _really_ getting pissed off. “No? It’s not enough that I’ve been your brother’s friend for months? That I haven’t killed him yet after living with him for weeks, while, frankly, many people wouldn’t have had that much patience? That I killed a man – damn it – but you already know, and you left it alone because you know I may have saved Sherlock’s life there. That I kept emailing him to keep him sane when you were making his life hell.” He stopped and took a deep breath.

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. “I suppose you do have a point. But as you mentioned before, I made a major mistake allowing James Murphy’s presence around my brother. You will understand that I have become more cautious. I do care about Sherlock.”

John sighed. “Just let me help.”

“Alright, but then I will have to arrange a short meeting between you and my people, which will cost us time,” Mycroft said.

“Why? Can’t you tell me where to go yourself?”

“Of course. But you do not have the proper equipment to deal with men as dangerous as Moriarty and possibly Moran.”

 

The meeting with the tired looking woman only lasted about five minutes and earned John a gun, a bullet-proof vest and a radio. John internally rolled his eyes at Mycroft’s sense of drama, acting like it would have been a huge waste of time. Then he could finally really get to work and focus on something else than the panicked clench around his heart, constantly telling him exactly how long it had been since Moriarty had disappeared with his friend.

 

John had been talking to one of the hotel guests, a rich old woman with a thick French accent, when he got a call from Mycroft.

“Moriarty is back in Mexico,” he told John without greeting.

“Back?”

“As I expected, he was on a flight coming from Sydney. We recognised him on the security footage,” Mycroft explained. “I had people following him, but I am sorry to tell you they lost track. I must admit that our reserves in Mexico are not the most talented employees of the British government and I will see to it that they are replaced, but for now, all we could learn is that you must indeed be looking in the right area now.”

“Did they see Sherlock with him?” John asked anxiously.

“No. Either Moriarty has left him in Australia – people are checking Sydney Airport footage as we speak – or Sherlock is still in Mexico. I’d say that last scenario is the most probable. Moriarty did have the company of Ms Smith, though. It would be good if we could find her alive, and even better if Moriarty did not get the chance to speak to her, though I fear that is too much to hope for.”

John snorted, trying to beat down the rising panic. “So, the plan?”

“Carry on. Go west rather than east. And... Try to be quick.”


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock waited until he could hear no more noises from the other side of the door, then whispered: "Jenny? Jenny? Are you okay?"

He tried nudging the young woman with his foot. She groaned softly, but didn't move.

Relieved that she was able to make any kind of response after that fall she had taken, Sherlock got to work on his bonds. It only took him a couple of minutes to free one hand and after that, the rest was easy. He moved the chair aside, careful not to make any noise, and then removed Jenny's gag before shaking her very gently. "Jenny?" he whispered again. "Wake up."

"Whu..." She turned her head away from him and winced.

"Relax," he said. "Don't try to move. You've hit your head." He looked around and found a towel. He folded it up and gently lifted her head, just enough to slide it under, so she'd be off the cold tiles. "Can you tell me what you remember?"

She blinked painfully, then looked up at him. "Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he said. "I'm a detective and I was out looking for you. I'm sorry he found you first."

"Is... Is he gone?" she asked.

"You're safe for now," Sherlock lied. "Now please... Tell me what happened."

"He took me out for a drink," she said, frowning a little. "And then... I woke up in a plane. He was sitting next to me. And the announcement said we were going to Mexico City. I didn't understand, but I... I couldn't think..."

Sherlock nodded. "You were drugged," he said. "And he must have bribed someone to get you on the plane. Possibly pretending you were ill, but still... He can't just have taken you through security if you were unconscious."  

She blinked slowly. "But why?"

"Why did you suddenly quit your job and move to Australia?" Sherlock asked. Maybe her current state might actually prove an advantage. Might make her reveal things she might not have, were she more clear of mind.

"I had an offer," she said, frowning a little. "There was this man..."

Sherlock waited a moment then, as he went to get her a glass of water, spoke softly: "Go on."

She took a deep breath. “He was this new guy. Corey. He only started a week before my last flight. He was a bit clumsy, but… he seemed nice. He had great hair. The kind of guy that is friendly to everyone.”

Sherlock smiled. Yes, he knew the type. He had seen guys like that often enough around his brother. Not the clumsy bit, but being thrown into a profession that was completely new to you would be hard for most. Even government agents.

“Did he make friends, though?” Sherlock said, helping her to lift her head enough to drink a little. “Or was he just plain nice?”

She considered for a moment before answering. “No… He didn’t really have friends, I suppose. But he did go out with the rest of us on Friday night. To celebrate his first transatlantic flight. That…” She hesitated. “That was how it all started.”

“What started?” Sherlock asked, stroking her hair gently to keep her as calm as possible.

“All… this…” She made a vague gesture.

He nodded. He knew what she meant. But he needed more detail.

“Can you tell me what happened that night?”

Jenny took a couple of deep breaths. “We all got pretty drunk. Mainly because of jetlag. It’s always cheaper to go out after long flights. You’re already giddy and will feel the alcohol more keenly. And when we go out together, we’ll sort of wind each other up. So we were all laughing and joking and stuff. And Corey was even more… friendly. I… I thought that maybe he was flirting with me. So when he said he was going out to smoke, I kind of followed. You know, to see if he wanted to hook up or something.”

She closed her eyes and sighed at the memory.

“He didn’t?” Sherlock asked.

“He didn’t even notice me,” she said. “Not at first anyway. He was on the phone.”

Sherlock perked up. It was finally beginning to sound like it hadn’t been completely pointless going after Jenny.

“Do you know whom he was talking to?” he asked.

“Well… not for sure,” she said hesitantly. “But it must have been some of the people he was _really_ working for. Not the airline but… the government.”

Sherlock wondered briefly if it would serve him best to seem surprised at this or let her sense that he had expected as much. He opted for the latter, supposing it would help her trust him if he seemed to know what was going on. So he just nodded.

This made her smile a little and visibly relax. But she did not speak.

“What was he talking about?” Sherlock prompted.

“Oh… I didn’t really catch it all, but it was something about a scanner. And a target.”

This took Sherlock somewhat by surprise. A scanner? For what?

But rather than pursue that, he said: “A target? What kind of target?”

“I… I wasn’t sure,” she said, and although she was obviously lying, he decided not to press the matter.

“What happened? Did you go back inside?” he asked.

“I was going to,” she said. “But then I kind of stumbled over this empty bottle and he heard me. I swear my heart stopped for a second. I almost screamed. And of course he noticed me then. And knew I’d been listening. I wanted to run back inside. To the others. But… There was something about him. He seemed so calm.”

She stopped speaking again, and Sherlock feared that she was losing consciousness. She was clearly concussed. Badly.

He nudged her shoulder gently.

She gasped and opened her eyes. “What?” she muttered. Then she focused on him and frowned. “Oh… Right… When he saw me, he beckoned me over. And I kind of figured that we were out in public. Right in front of the pub. With people just inside and cars in the street. So he couldn’t really do anything but talk to me. So I walked over to him. And he took hold of my wrist. Not hurting me, but holding on tight. Like I couldn’t just get away. And he said I had to go with him. And then he showed me this sort of card he had… You know. Like an ID-card.”

Sherlock could not help but smile. He had a small collection of those at home.

“It looked genuine and he said that he worked for the government and needed my help. Would I please come with him.”

Sherlock could have said a thing or two on that account, but kept his tongue.

“So you did go with him?” he asked.

She nodded. “After calling my friend inside and telling her that I was leaving with Corey. Of course she thought we were going home together, but I figured that if something happened, at least someone would know he was involved.”

“Good thinking,” Sherlock said, smiling encouragingly at her.

She smiled too. “It turned out I was right to trust him,” she said. “He really did work for the government. We went to this strange building. It just looked like any other house, but inside were all these offices and a lot of… you know… security stuff.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I know the place.”

“You do?” she asked. “How…?”

“It’s not important now,” Sherlock said quickly. “Please. Tell me… What happened then?”

She frowned and then winced. “Corey left,” she said. “Left me in this large, dark office. And then three men came in. They were… huge… And they asked me all sorts of questions, shouting at me, all speaking at the same time. I was so confused. They… They wanted to know a bunch of stuff about me. My family. School. Previous jobs. I… It sounded like they thought I was some kind of spy or something.”

Sherlock doubted that was the real reason. But they had probably wanted to do a thorough check of her background, and getting the truth from her was easier if she was off balance.

“I… I think it went on for an hour or more,” she said. “Then they just left me alone.” She sighed. “I thought Corey would come and get me. But instead this… really creepy man came in. He was sort of tall and… well, not really thin but… lean…”

Sherlock huffed and Jenny looked puzzled, but he gestured for her to go on.

“He sat down at the desk and said he wanted to make me an offer,” she said after a moment.

“What kind of offer?” Sherlock asked.

“Well… He seemed to know everything about me. Including things I hadn’t told those other guys. He knew I had tried to become a vet but didn’t have the grades for it. He knew I used to dream about going to Australia and working with endangered species.”

“So he offered to send you there if you didn’t tell anyone what you had heard?”

“Well… Not exactly. He wanted me to help. To assist Corey.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He had not expected that. “Assist him?” he blurted out. “How?”

She bit her lip and tried to shake her head. “I… I can’t tell you,” she said. “It… He said I could never tell anyone. Or he could have me locked up for life.”

Sherlock smiled reassuringly. “I know. But he cannot get to you here, right? And circumstances have changed. I need to know everything so I can protect you.”

She hesitated for a long moment. Then, when she began speaking, it seemed rushed. Like she had wanted to get this off her chest.

“I had to help him on a particular flight. There was this one passenger. The man said that he would be trying to smuggle something into the country. Something dangerous. But… Corey had to stay out of sight. So… I had to check if he had the thing with him.”

“How?” Sherlock asked. “Did you go through his bag?”

“No,” She tried to shake her head. “He would have noticed. It was in the compartment right above him. I had to scan… with this thing that Corey gave me. While I was pretending to be getting a blanket. If he had had the thing, Corey said the scanner would have picked up on it.”

“So? Did he have it?”

She smiled a little. “No. Corey said it was okay. And then he asked me to serve the guy a drink. After that Corey grew quiet. Sort of tense.”

Sherlock did not respond but closed his eyes for a moment.

“I… I think I killed him,” Jenny said, suddenly. “I think there was something in the drink. Poison. And he seemed to be such a nice guy. And with that pretty young woman. They seemed so happy. And normal. I can’t really believe he would be carrying something dangerous. That he would want to hurt anyone.”

Sherlock looked down at her and saw tears welling up in her eyes.

“Did I?” she asked. “Did I kill him?”

“Oh yes, you did, dearie,” a voice said behind Sherlock. “And his little wife too.”

Sherlock gasped and turned, in time to see Moriarty open the door.

“But still,” he said, stepping forward. His hair was a mess and he was dressed in nothing but boxers, but his eyes were sparkling with that manic gleam that was so very unlike the James Sherlock thought he had known. “It’s not really your fault. Sherly’s dear brother is the true culprit here. Isn’t that right? Darling?” He walked over to Sherlock and ruffled his hair. “And now we’ve got everything we need to prove it.”

Sherlock cursed. How could he not have anticipated this? They had literally thrown him into the same room as her. He had done exactly what they wanted him to. Given them what they were after all along. He had given them his brother.

He closed his eyes, but then opened them again as Moriarty stepped over him and reached up for something over the mirror. A camera. And a small microphone. Now Sherlock noticed the thin, almost invisible wire running along the wall and then disappearing through the door into the bedroom.

He hadn’t seen it before. Why hadn’t he seen it before? He wasn’t usually this sloppy. This careless. But he had been tired. In pain. Scared.

Then he realised. His time alone with Moran. It had not just been about Moriarty getting Jenny. Or Moran getting even, though that had definitely been a part of it. But the main purpose of that day and a half had been to weaken him. To exhaust him and leave him confused and desperate.

“Well played,” he muttered, looking up at Moriarty. “You really are good at this.”

“Thank you, dear,” Moriarty said, leaning down as if to show Sherlock the camera. But instead, he swung his hand, punching Sherlock on the side of the head, leaving him in a haze of white pain for a long moment.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Moran dragging a struggling Jenny into the bedroom. The gag had been put back in place and her eyes, round with horror, were locked on Sherlock’s.

Moriarty nudged him with his foot. “Get up,” he said, sounding a little impatient. “If you can get out of the chair by yourself, you can get into the bed by yourself.” Then he stepped back and a moment later a splash of cold water hit Sherlock’s face.

He groaned as he pushed himself up, feeling several of the thin scabs on his back tearing themselves away from his skin. He flinched as he felt fresh blood trickling down his back, but walked slowly into the bedroom where Moran had dumped Jenny in a sobbing heap on the floor.

Moran grinned as he saw them. “Better take your seat if you don’t want to miss the show, Boss.”

Moriarty nodded and then pushed Sherlock down on the bed. A moment later he was next to him, wrapping his arms around Sherlock in a way that seemed both possessive, threatening and oddly affectionate. “Bring it on, Tiger,” he said. “Impress us.”

Moran raised an eyebrow at their embrace.

Moriarty giggled and then sucked on Sherlock’s earlobe.

Rolling his eyes, Moran turned away from them and looked down at Jenny. “Do you like knives?” he asked, in that same falsely gentle voice Sherlock had heard him use on him the last night he had lived with him.

Jenny shook her head frantically, whimpering.

“No?” Moran took a slow step towards her. “Shame…” Then suddenly he was kneeling and his fist came down on her nose.

The sound was sickening and Sherlock closed his eyes, not wanting to see the blood gushing down over her face. But Moriarty poked him hard in the ribs. “Ah ah,” he said. “You don’t want to miss anything. Otherwise I’ll just have to ask Sebby to do it again.”

Sherlock groaned, but opened his eyes again.

Moran was now dragging Jenny onto her feet, but she didn’t seem able to keep her balance, sobbing and sputtering to catch her breath under all the blood. He pushed her against the wall.

“She’s so weak,” he said petulantly, slapping her. “Hard to get any fun out of this one.”

“Don’t be rude, Tiger,” Moriarty said. “I brought you such a pretty toy, the least you can do is appreciate it?”

“Sorry, Boss.” Moran held the girl back by her right shoulder, brought his fist back to his side and slammed it into her stomach with full force. “Better?” he asked over her loud gasp, letting go so she could bend over.

“Beautiful,” Moriarty said, shifting so he could clap his hands. “A tooth. Bring me a tooth.”

Moran chuckled and pushed her up again. He stepped a little aside and Sherlock could see the fear and despair in her eyes, and the way she was lightly shaking her head as if that could stop what was about to happen. Then Moran’s fist made contact with the left side of her jaw, hard enough to throw her over on the floor.

“I think that’s two teeth,” Moran said, turning back to Moriarty. “Not my best aim.”

“One for me and one for you?” Moriarty suggested, holding out his hand.

Sherlock looked down at Jenny. Her once so pretty face was a bloody mess, one eye swollen shut, the other bloodshot and wet from the tears, making pink streaks down her cheek. She was sobbing softly, but otherwise not moving or making any sounds. If only he could have done something. But, dangerous as Moran was, the real menace was Moriarty, and he had a firm grip on Sherlock, his hands as well as his teeth all too close to Sherlock’s throat.

“Anything else you want, Boss? Or shall I get to the finale?” Moran asked.

One of Moriarty’s hands wandered slowly down over Sherlock’s chest, coming to rest just under his bellybutton. “You decide,” he said. “You’re running this show.”

Moran’s eyes ran over Jenny’s form, assessing, then he looked at Sherlock. “Okay,” he said, and he kneeled next to her. He stroked the hair off her forehead, rather roughly, and just looked at her, his hand hovering over her face.

She was breathing quickly, and sent a pleading look to Sherlock.

“Don’t,” Sherlock cried out before he could stop himself. A moment later Moriarty punched him hard in the chest.

“Quiet,” he ordered. “Looking, not speaking.”

For a moment, Moran turned his head to look at him with contempt. Then his hand came down on Jenny’s throat, and the other joined in. He was holding her up like that and moved a little to the side so Sherlock and Moriarty could see how his grip tightened.

Sherlock gulped. He remembered how those hands had felt around his own throat. The feeling of slowly slipping away. Of being beyond caring. He could see it in her eyes. Her heart might still be beating, but her spirit was broken. She was, to herself, already dead.

Moriarty was moaning eagerly and then latched his lips onto Sherlock’s neck, sucking hard, twisting his head, so he could continue watching Moran and Jenny.

Then Moran smiled at Moriarty, moved one of his hands and gave a quick tug. Her neck gave a snap and he dropped her, her face towards Sherlock with her one open eye stuck in an expression of surprise.

Now, Sherlock closed his eyes. This was it. With Jenny gone, all that was left for them to do was to kill him and then head off home to Britain to destroy Mycroft. All because he had been too… stupid, to see what was happening right in front of him.

Moriarty laughed. “Brilliant,” he said. “Get over here.” He took one hand away from Sherlock so he could pull Moran down for a very noisy and deep kiss. Then he pushed him away gently. “I’m hungry,” he said. “Get me some food. Anything but Mexican.”

Moran nodded slowly, but his gaze lingered on Sherlock with its own type of hunger. “Jim…”

“No, Tiger,” Moriarty said sternly. “You had plenty of time with Sherlock. It’s my turn now.” He let his hands travel down over Sherlock’s body again and down into his ruined trousers. Sherlock tensed, expecting pain, but instead soft, all too familiar fingers caressed him and then began stroking him gently.

“Right…” Moran didn’t seem happy about it, but he took a step back. “I’ll just put on a fresh shirt then.”

“Better wash, too,” Moriarty said. “You look a bloody mess.”

Moran rolled his eyes at this and then disappeared into the bathroom.

“Finally alone,” Moriarty purred, nibbling on Sherlock’s ear. “Did you miss me?”


	18. Chapter 18

It took Sebastian a large amount of control not to just rip out the control panel of the lift, rather than simply stabbing the button. And not to start beating the man who was smiling dumbly at him when he walked past the reception desk. He would have welcomed some fresh air, but the heat of the late afternoon was oppressive and sated with exhaust fumes.

By the time Sebastian had come out of the shower, Jim was fucking Holmes’ mouth. Or at least, Sebastian wished he could have described it like that. Instead, it had been gentle, and Jim had barely been thrusting up while Holmes sucked him and took him deeper.

“Good boy,” Jim had been mumbling at him, playing with his hair, and then he had looked up and gave Sebastian that smile of his.

It made Sebastian’s blood boil.

Why couldn’t Jim just _take_ him? Why did he have to be so slow and tender about it? What was the use? Holmes was nothing more than his toy now. But it was like Jim wouldn’t take advantage. Sebastian felt he hadn’t punished either of them half as much as they deserved.

And it was not fair. After the show Sebastian had given Jim, _he_ was the one who should be allowed to touch his boss. _He_ was the one who had broken that stupid girl’s neck because he knew how much Jim loved the sound. And then it was barely appreciated. Jim’s only reaction had been to make him angrier. And send him out to where he knew Sebastian had to behave. Maybe he had even wanted him away so he could make Holmes fuck him again. Maybe he _liked_ all that slow, sweet and soppy misery.

But not his Jim. He wouldn’t be so weak. Would he?

Yet Jim had also been cuddling with Holmes on the bed, while Sebastian had been busy with that girl. There would have been more efficient ways to hold him back and make him watch. Why was he attracted to that skinny git? Why couldn’t he just kill him, or even better, let Sebastian do so?

What if Sebastian returned to the hotel and the room was empty?

He didn’t really believe Jim would do that. Leave him like that. But then, he had always known he couldn’t trust his boss. Follow him, yes. Believe he would get him out of trouble as long as he could use Sebastian, sure. Even respect him and, should it have been his sort of thing, love him. But a mind like Jim’s could hardly be called trustworthy.

Sebastian had never even given it much thought. But now he wondered if the time had come when he had become replaceable. After all, he had only meant trouble to Jim in the past few months. And so far, he had believed he was worth it, since Jim still wanted to go through hiding him and still contacted him. Although he had known that Jim must have other snipers, even other men who could give orders to the lower ranks without compromising Moriarty’s anonymity, he had thought that there was one point that distinguished him from Jim’s other employees. Only to find out that he had allowed a rat like Holmes to fuck him. That he had been sucking his cock as if he meant it.

Although Sebastian had never noticed any of it, Holmes was said to be a genius. Was that what intrigued Jim? Having someone like himself around, rather than someone like Sebastian? Had he never been planning to kill Holmes?

 

He hardly registered what he ordered at the kebab shop, his mind too occupied to do anything else than automatically counting out the money and picking up the bag. On the way back, he forced himself to slow down his pace, and back in the hotel, he chose the stairs rather than the lift. He was still angry and he didn’t want to be back in that room. He would snap if he saw more of their touching, and he wasn’t up for a fight with Jim. In the states they were both in, it was all too probable that that would end badly. It would be much better to simply work it out on Holmes. To beat him into a pulp until there was nothing left for Jim to admire. As soon as Jim would allow him, Sebastian would jump at the chance. He would give Jim a display of his strength and vigour that would make him come in his pants. And then he’d remind Jim what it was like to be sucked off by a _real_ man. He’d have his way with him until he had convinced him he _never_ wanted anyone else than Sebastian. He’d…

Something heavy hit the back of his head forcefully, and he heard the soft thump of his keys falling out of his hand onto the carpet. Then he fell forward and his eyes fell shut.


	19. Chapter 19

John’s heart was hammering in his throat as he picked up Moran’s keys and gun, then left the tall man lying in the corridor. He wished he could have secured him, but there was no time to look for anything to do that with, and he expected back-up any minute. Still, he felt it was impossible to wait for Mycroft’s people. John had only called him right before entering the hotel and they couldn’t be that close.

The room number on the keychain was only a few doors away from where he had knocked Moran out with the back of his gun. Inside, John could hear faint noises, and he took a moment to steady himself before he turned the key. Who knew what he would find in there...

He threw the door open, stepped in - and stopped dead, staring.

It couldn’t be. After looking for Sherlock for so long, it just wasn’t possible that the detective was here in a hotel bed, making love with the man John had earlier believed to be Sherlock’s boyfriend. The headboard hit the wall rhythmically every time Moriarty thrust into Sherlock, and only then John noticed Moriarty’s hands, even though he badly wanted to look away. They had closed in around Sherlock’s throat, and Sherlock’s eyes had rolled back and he looked very pale.

“No!” John leapt forward and pushed against Moriarty’s shoulder, dragging him away from Sherlock.

Moriarty’s cry of anger changed to one of surprise as he lost his balance and tumbled off the bed.

John dived after him and managed to punch him, before Moriarty got back his senses and four fingers each made a deep scratch over John’s right cheek before he could slap the hand away and push Moriarty’s arms down against the floor.

“Too late, Johnny Boy,” Moriarty hissed. “He’s ruined. Nothing left for you to play with.”

Before John had a chance to react, running footsteps sounded behind him and he was thrown off Moriarty’s naked body, actually losing touch with the floor for a moment before he fell down on his back, all the air knocked out of him.

“Come on,” Moran growled as he pulled Moriarty to his feet. “They’re after us, we have to disappear.”

John reached for his gun, but by the time he sat up, the two men had fled out of the room. For a moment, he considered running after them, but he was almost certain they would run into Mycroft’s people, and Sherlock still wasn’t moving. John jumped up to check on him.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?” He pressed his fingers toSherlock’s wrist, sighing in relief when he found a pulse, although it was weak. “Sherlock? Come on, breathe.”

He was taking a deep breath and leaning over him, when Sherlock finally gasped.

“Sherlock, thank god,” John mumbled. “Can you look at me? Yes, that’s good.” He ran his fingers along Sherlock’s throat and neck to gauge the damage, then carefully helped him to sit up against the headboard, so he could get more air.

"Jo... John?" Sherlock gasped, his voice sounding strained and raspy. "Where... James...?"

John frowned. Sherlock couldn't be seriously asking for the man John had only just stopped from killing him. "Moriarty should be with Mycroft's people by now. And I hope they don't spare him," he bit out, finding it difficult to keep his tone gentle.

Sherlock sat for a moment, then suddenly scrambled off the bed and stumbled across the room, shaking John off when he wanted to stop him. On a small table by the wall lay some wires and electronic equipment. Sherlock sighed in relief. "He didn't get it," he muttered, and then his knees buckled and he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor.

He looked over at John, who had kneeled next to the girl on the floor. "It's too late," Sherlock said. "Moran snapped her neck."

John sighed and stepped away from her, then took a dressing gown from the bathroom and draped it over Sherlock's shoulders. "Come, you shouldn't be sitting on the cold floor. We should get you to a hospital and you can tell me what happened on the way."

Sherlock sat for a moment, lost in thought. Then he pushed himself up. "Where did he go?" he asked. "Moriarty? He must be stopped. He knows... too much..."

John shrugged. "Mycroft will take care of him. It's not our concern now. Sherlock." He put a hand on the taller man's shoulder, glad he could feel him, still there after all his fears. "I'm so sorry. I... I don't even want to imagine what happened to you. But it's over."

Sherlock shook his head, staggering to the door. "It's not over," he said. "Not until he's locked up."

 

…

 

"You don't mean to say that the British government's own workers are a bunch of incompetent idiots? _How_ could this happen? How, Mycroft? No, I don't want your excuses. Your own brother is in danger and you just keep messing around. If I hadn't barged in there..."

"Sir, can you _please_ keep your voice down?” the young nurse said nervously. “The patient needs rest and otherwise I will really have to ask you to leave..."

"I am not leaving his side," John roared, before he realised none of it was the poor girl's fault and he ended the phone call. "Sorry."

Sherlock's face twitched as he watched John, as if he couldn't make up his mind whether to smile or scowl.

John sighed and sat down again. "I don't understand how he could let them get away. I'm really sorry about the man Moran killed on his way, but... The others should have handled it. Not been afraid to kill..."

"You know how Moran can be," Sherlock said. "And you've seen what Moriarty can do. Those two together... Not much that could stop them, I suppose."

John shook his head. "I should have shot them when I had the chance."

Sherlock nodded. "That would have been a solution," he said. "But if you had shot Moran in the hall, chances are that Moriarty would have finished me off before you could get to me. So... I guess it's not all bad." He smiled a little and raised an eyebrow.

John managed a faint smile in return. "Are you feeling a little better? Those cuts on your back looked... bad." He had not had much time to pay them attention when he had found him, but Sherlock’s whole back had been covered in dried blood.

"They're not that deep," Sherlock said, smiling a little. "I'm mostly worried about the scars, but Mycroft knows some doctors who may be able to fix that too."

John frowned a little, but didn't press the subject. Then he thought of something else.

"What had happened to your phone?"

"I don't know for certain, but Moriarty probably removed it from my bag while we were..." Sherlock stopped and then cleared his throat. "While he was distracting me. Before we even got to the airport. My guess is that he left it in the car."

John sighed. "He was well prepared. I'm still kicking myself that I didn't reach you in time to tell you."

Sherlock shook his head. "John... He had fooled me completely. The fact that you even found out is, quite frankly, miraculous. And, I suspect, the only reason why I'm still alive." After a moment he added: "How did you find out?"

"I... It's silly," John said. "One of Liz's friends knew... ‘Murphy’. And she knew Jane Levington. Apparently she had disappeared right after an appointment with him. Of course that wasn't proof. But then I had a dream. I know it's ridiculous, but when I woke up, I was almost certain that Murphy was Moran's boss. All I could think of was that I had to warn you."

Sherlock shook his head. "Of course," he said. "Posing as an underling gave Moriarty the perfect opportunity to get close to Levington. And to me..." He pounded his fist into the bed. "I should have known. I can't believe I let him fool me like that."

John carefully touched his shoulder. "Don't blame yourself. He was playing his role very well. Sometimes it's harder to see through something like that when you're so close."

John bit his lip. With everything that had happened, he had hardly had the chance to think of how Sherlock must feel. It really had looked like he was in love with 'James'. To find out that everything had been a lie…

"But I shouldn't have been," Sherlock said, still rather agitated. "I shouldn't have been that close. I should have stayed above it. I thought I was."

John sighed. "Sherlock, there's nothing wrong with sharing a good time with someone and starting to like them. There really isn't. He just... took advantage, and I'm really sorry about that, but don't think it is always like that. There are still people you can trust."

"People can't be trusted," Sherlock said. "My work has shown me that over and over again. In all my life, I've only met one person who has yet to prove unworthy of my trust."

"Well, that exception proves it's not impossible, right?" John smiled a little. He doubted that Sherlock would mean Mycroft, and yet it felt presumptuous to assume he would mean himself. He decided not to give it too much thought. "And it's Moriarty we're talking about. He's not exactly the person to set your standards to."

"Still," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. "He was quite impressive. In some ways."

"Er... What?" John said.

"This whole thing," Sherlock said. "He must have been planning it from the start. I mean... he couldn't have known I'd go to Mexico, but he put himself in the perfect position to know everything I was doing on that case. And to make sure I didn't get too close on the Levington murder. He was basically in control of my mood. Able to distract or encourage me, depending on what direction he wanted me to go in. And... He only had a few days’ warning about coming here, but everything was ready for us. That room, where I do not doubt the hotel staff has been receiving an impressive bonus to keep their eyes and ears shut these past days. And Moran. And the drugs he gave me on the plane." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. "I mean... He really is a genius. There can be no doubt about it."

It almost sounded like Sherlock was admiring him. Still, after all Moriarty had done to him, and had let Moran do to him. John had to take a deep breath to manage his anger. Then he realised that perhaps this was Sherlock's way of coping with being beaten. That it was easier for him to accept if Moriarty was a genius like himself.

"He may be a genius, but mainly he's a bastard," he said. "The sooner he's locked away forever, the better."

Sherlock nodded. "I doubt that will happen, though. Not when he's managed to get away from Mycroft's men." He closed his eyes and sat lost in thoughts for a moment. "Why were they not with you?" he asked. "Why did you get there first?"

"They were too slow," John answered, once again feeling the rage surge through him. "We had been combing through hotel after hotel. Even a few other places, in case Moriarty had not chosen an obvious place to stay. By the last one I entered, I had no clue where to go next, and there was no sign of any of you, so I ordered some water and was about to call Mycroft, when something outside caught my eye." It had been a shock, seeing the tall blond man walk by, holding a plastic bag. He hadn't quite believed it could be him, not after searching for so long, not when he was passing by so casually.

"It was Moran. He disappeared into the hotel on the other side of the street, so I crossed as fast as I could and was only just in time to see him before he took a turn on the stairs. Meanwhile I had called Mycroft. You know the rest."

"I am glad you did not wait," Sherlock said, smiling at him. "Moriarty was taking his time, but I think a few more minutes would have resulted in brain damage." He shivered slightly as if that was the worst outcome imaginable.

John nodded. "I was scared enough as it was."

After a long moment, Sherlock nodded. "Me too," he said.

 

…

 

It wasn't very long before Sherlock fell asleep, helped by the painkillers and his exhaustion. Despite the nurse's protests, John stayed with him all the time, unable to ignore the urge to keep an eye on his friend, to protect him. It wasn't like Mycroft, he told himself. The image of how John had found Sherlock, what Moriarty had been doing to him, just remained sharply before his eyes. He had a good reason not to want to lose sight of Sherlock.

After two days, they found Sherlock fit to travel back to London, as long as there was a doctor by his side at all times. John could convince them that that would be the case, and they made the long journey. Sherlock clearly was very uncomfortable sitting so long, with the wounds on his back itching, his muscles still protesting after being bound to a chair for over a day, and his arse… John didn’t want to think of that. Yet it was striking how little the detective was complaining, and that worried John the most. Under normal circumstances, he could imagine that Sherlock would whine loudly about the boredom and the need to sit still for hours. But now he was just sitting next to him, staring into the distance for most of the time, lost in his own thoughts or maybe hidden away in his mind palace. And of course he didn’t want to talk.

"You still awake?" John asked when they had an hour of flying left. He had checked before he asked, but he just wanted to say something, probably more to put himself at ease, to be honest.

Sherlock nodded. "Of course," he said. "I don't have time for sleep now."

"Ah. Already back to work then?" John asked, smiling.

"Back? I never stopped working." Sherlock looked genuinely puzzled. "Do you really count this as a vacation?" He snorted mirthlessly. "Besides... This case is far from over."

"Of course I didn't see it as a vacation," John said indignantly. "But no one would think any less of you if you took some rest now. You really need it."

"I cannot rest until I get to the bottom of this," Sherlock said. "And I have a feeling my brother will want to have words with me as soon as possible."

John frowned. "I could tell him to wait. That you can't see him, doctor's orders..."

"No. We have to talk about this," Sherlock said firmly. "There is no putting it off."

"Alright." Maybe Sherlock would talk to his brother about what happened, then. Yet John didn't really believe the subject would even come up. "Is there anything I can help you with?" he tried.

Sherlock considered for a moment, then nodded. "In my suitcase," he said, "there is a small camera and other surveillance equipment. It is wrapped inside my purple shirt. If Mycroft has me picked up straight from the airport, or intercepts me the moment I set foot in the flat, I want you to take it and hide it. In your room. Whatever happens, don't let Mycroft get his hands on it. Or Moriarty or Moran."

"Right," John frowned. "I'll do my best."

"Thank you." Sherlock smiled at him and then closed his eyes.

John hesitated, but decided to leave Sherlock to his thoughts.

 

…

 

As they weren't stopped at the airport and none of Mycroft's cars stood waiting for them, John almost dared to hope that Mycroft would give his brother a break. But of course, he thought when they entered the flat where Mycroft sat frowning in Sherlock's chair, Mycroft had just waited a little longer so they could talk in private, rather than making a scene with hundreds of people walking by.

"I'll, uhm, just take the bags," John said, suppressing the urge to duck as he walked between the two brothers who were staring daggers at each other. They didn't have much luggage with them, so he took everything to Sherlock's room, quickly stuffed the contents of Sherlock's bag into his own and replaced them with some dirty clothes, and then went upstairs with his own bag, hoping Mycroft would have other matters on his mind than thinking about what had kept John for that short time.


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock tried to hide his discomfort as he sat down in his chair, facing his brother. "So," he said, after a moment's pause. "We have a lot to discuss. Brother dear."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Why don't you start with explaining to me why exactly you went to Mexico?"

"I needed to get out of London," Sherlock said truthfully. "I brought James... Moriarty along, because he had told me he always wanted to go. I thought I could combine the necessary with the... nice..."

Mycroft looked revolted. "You allowed yourself to be manipulated into travelling to a place where Moran could be waiting. Because 'James'  _ wanted _ to go there. Since when do you care what other people  _ want _ ?" For once, he did little to conceal the white-hot rage bubbling under the surface.

"Maybe since my brother started obstructing my work to hide his own involvement in the murder of innocent civilians," Sherlock countered.

"Innocent civilians?" Mycroft sneered. "Why on earth would I have any interest in killing them?"

"No," Sherlock said. "The real question is why Bellinger had to die. And what you thought he’d be bringing into the country."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I can understand that you are confused and have trouble trusting people after all this. In fact, the trust issue is probably for the best. But thinking that your own brother would kill one of his colleagues is going a bit far, don't you think? I have not even been near him. And he's alive..."

"Drop the act, brother," Sherlock said, clenching his hand. "I'm sure your men told you what they found in the room where I was held captive. One dead ex-stewardess. One you helped emigrate to Australia so she could not reveal that she helped search what she thought was Bellinger’s bags and then served a poisoned drink to Charles Forrestal, killing him and his wife."

"I did wonder about that girl," Mycroft said. "Even if your improbable story would be true, do you think it would be any of your business?  _ If _ I wanted someone dead, I'm sure I would have a good reason... and that I would be successful."

"But you weren't," Sherlock said. "All because a girl with a crush overheard a conversation. You really should pick less attractive operatives, if you are going to have them working alongside young single women for any extended period of time." He sighed. "Anyway, the point is: I know, and Moriarty knows. He cannot prove anything at the moment, but I fear that is just a matter of time."

“Moriarty may not be our biggest problem right now,” Mycroft said, shaking his head.

"Oh?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What is your biggest problem then?"

Mycroft sighed. “Bellinger. He’s been travelling the globe, presenting his… ‘product’... to potential buyers. This morning, he launched the auction. Crime syndicates, terrorist cells and a few minor, but troublesome, countries are placing their bids as we speak.”

“How long do we have?” Sherlock asked, grinning as he realised that this was as close as his brother was ever going to get to offering him a truly interesting job.

“A couple of days,” Mycroft said, clearly annoyed that he could not give a more precise answer.

“What has he got that is so dangerous?” Sherlock asked. “And that a… ‘scanner’ would have picked up on?”

“A scanner?” Mycroft frowned.

“Yes. Jenny Smith said Corey had her scan the bags for something. Before serving the drink. If it’s just information he’s got, surely he wouldn’t be carrying it around in any way that could be detected.”

“Ah.” Mycroft nodded. “She had an infrared device to check for exceptionally cold objects in the luggage. After all the vial has to stay cool at all times in order to be able to use it later. It would have worked, if she had actually scanned the right bags.”

Sherlock shook his head slowly. “Vial?” he said. “I thought you said information…”

“Both,” Mycroft said. “Are you familiar with the activities in Baskerville?”

“I’ve heard rumours…”

“Of what nature?” Mycroft asked.

“All kinds. That they’re cloning humans. Creating monsters. Designing plagues.” Sherlock paused. “Oh god. They really did, didn’t they?”

“It was an accident. Quite a simple experiment with RNA, actually. But they made a highly infectious virus.”

“Which they quickly destroyed, of course,” Sherlock said, not really bothering to conceal the irony.

“ That actually  _ was _ the plan after studying it,” Mycroft said. “But by then it had already gone wrong.”

“A sample had been ‘misplaced’?”

Mycroft nodded. “Obviously.”

  
  


…

  
  


As soon as he heard Mycroft's car drive away, Sherlock called up the stairs: "John! We're going out."

"Out? No, we're not!" John called, before he came running down the stairs.

"Of course we are," Sherlock said, putting on his coat, trying not to wince as it brushed over his back. "Time may be running out."

"Time for  _ what _ ?"

"Time to stop Bellinger," Sherlock said, heading for the door.

"Can you at least explain what is going on? You need rest. We shouldn't be running around now," John said, grabbing his coat and following Sherlock.

"I'll tell you on the way," Sherlock promised as he stepped through the door, already waving at a nearby cab.

Once the cab was moving again, John gave him an inquiring look.

Sherlock smiled. "Well," he said, feeling rather smug. "It seems this whole thing was not completely wasted. My brother is finally letting me in on what has been going on."

John frowned. "Okay... So what  _ is _ going on?"

"Mycroft tried to have Bellinger killed," Sherlock said. "For a good reason."

"He told you?" John asked, his eyes widening.

Sherlock nodded. "He might as well. He knew I had spoken to Jenny Smith. But so had Moriarty. And it turns out that Mycroft actually needs me for this. Lives could be lost if Bellinger is not stopped now. Many lives."

"What’s he planning?" John asked. "He really didn't seem like a mass murderer to me..."

Sherlock shrugged and quickly filled John in on what Mycroft had told him, leaving out the bit about Jenny actually serving the deadly drink.

“But then why hasn’t Bellinger left the country, if he knows they’re after him?” John asked.

“He doesn’t have to,” Sherlock said. “Mycroft can’t touch him here in London. Too many people are keeping their eyes on him, hoping he will sell to them. Killing him on that flight was really a very unique opportunity. Once they had made sure he was not carrying the sample with him.”

“It’s really hard to believe that that man would do something so ruthless,” John sighed. Then he seemed to realise what he had said and looked a little alarmed, but quickly hid his expression.

Sherlock shrugged. "I ceased being amazed or indeed appalled many years ago," he said.

John studied him for a moment before he spoke again. "So where are we going? It won't exactly be useful to go talk to Bellinger."

"We're not going to talk to him," Sherlock said. "We are going to break into his house and search for clues to which bank he is keeping the sample in."

John frowned. "How can you be sure he's not home?"

"Oh, I'm quite sure he is home," Sherlock said, smiling in anticipation. "I didn't say it would be easy."

"But... He's dangerous..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he glanced over at John, still smiling. "Is that a problem?" he asked softly.

The corners of John's mouth curled a little. "Well..."

  
  


…

  
  


Sherlock walked along the high brick wall surrounding Bellinger's estate. He had his hands in his pockets and was humming. He had to admit it was good to be back. To be free. To be working.

"Enjoying yourself?" John smiled.

Sherlock glanced back over at his shoulder at the shorter man, who was trying to keep up. "Yes," he said, smiling. "Aren't you?"

"Maybe a little," John admitted, looking a little guilty. "But... Are you sure you could get away fast enough if he discovers us? You're still not exactly in top shape."

He shrugged. "It'll be fine. He's not really dangerous on a one to one basis. Or..." Sherlock chuckled. "Two to one." As they turned the corner, he began searching for a way to get over the wall. "The people guarding him won't be inside the house anyway. It's just him and a few staff members." He found a place where an old tree grew less than a meter from the wall and went over to examine it. The branches were pretty high, but not impossible to reach. "Come on," he said to John. "I'll give you a boost."

John stepped closer and managed to get on the wall with Sherlock's help, then reached out his hand to help his friend up. "I really shouldn't let you do that to your ribs right now," he muttered.

"I'll be fine," Sherlock said, biting back a groan as he pulled himself up. "Don't worry about me. Worry about the dogs."

John stilled and looked back sharply, then laughed. "Oh, you bastard!" he said, rolling his eyes at Sherlock.

Sherlock chuckled as he let himself drop down from the wall and then hurried across the beautifully kept lawn up towards some rose bushes about half way to the house.

"Let's just hope no one is looking out," John whispered as he joined him behind the bushes. "Any clever plans to make us invisible?"

"Don't get seen?" Sherlock suggested, keeping his head down as he moved around the bushes, studying the back of the house. "Bellinger is not big on security, counting on his potential clients to keep him safe. But right now they are being distracted. Courtesy of my brother. Which means this house has nothing but the most standard of protection. And even though we may be spotted later on security footage, Bellinger will not report us. He knows that we are on to him now. That is why he wanted the Forrestals' deaths investigated. He needed to know if someone was trying to get around paying for the virus. Or if his theft had been discovered."

"Alright. So... We really just take the back door?" John asked a little incredulously.

"Well," Sherlock said, frowning. "I don't think he's careless enough to leave that unlocked. Or even  _ just _ locked. It is bound to have a deadbolt or something similar. So..." He smiled as he saw it. "It will have to be through the kitchen window." He pointed at the large window near the corner of the house.

John nodded. "I'll go through and open the door for you."

Sherlock was about to protest, but then figured that he was lucky John hadn't made more of a fuss, so he smiled and nodded. "Thanks," he said. "I'll keep an eye out for Bellinger."

"Good." John glanced around one last time before he ran off.

  
  


Once inside, Sherlock quickly located Bellinger, who was watching something noisy on the large flatscreen in the sitting room. Gesturing for John to follow him, he tiptoed up the stairs, feeling a wide excited grin spread across his face. It really felt good to be working again. Proper work, not just sitting at the computer.

They found Bellinger’s study. He directed John to search through the drawers while he set to cracking the password on the computer.

It didn't take long, but proved a waste of time as there was nothing on the computer but official documents relating to his work as a diplomat. He must keep his personal files on another computer. Sherlock went over to John and whispered in his ear. "I'll go look in the next room. Just join me when you're done."

  
  


It wasn't long before John slipped past the half-open door to Bellinger's bedroom, shaking his head to tell Sherlock he hadn't found anything either.

Sherlock frowned and then went on with his search. Just as he had located a small laptop in the drawer of the nightstand, he heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Quickly he closed the drawer and scanned the room. Then he grabbed John's wrist and pulled him to the floor, pointing to the bed and lifting up the blanket to let him get under it. Sherlock had only just joined him in the cramped space, making sure that the blanket was hanging as before, hiding them from view, when they heard the door open. Sherlock held his breath.

In the darkness, he could make out that John's eyes were still wide open in panic, and clearly he was also trying not to breathe.

Sherlock listened to Bellinger's footsteps as he crossed the room. There was some rustling of fabric and then the doors on the wardrobe opened.

He was changing his clothes.

Sherlock smiled and glanced over at John. His panicked look was almost comical.

John huffed quietly. They were so close that the exhale made Sherlock's hair flutter. It tickled and he almost laughed. 

Still smiling, he raised his hand and covered John's mouth and nose gently.

John frowned and moved to pull away in reflex, but realised just in time that he had almost made the blanket behind him move and stilled. He slightly shook his head.

After a moment, Sherlock removed his hand and put a finger over his own lips. Bellinger was moving closer.

Then suddenly the bed creaked and sagged slightly as the man sat down, right above them.

John shifted a little so his weight wasn't pressing on his left shoulder anymore. For a moment, they didn't hear anything, and could only hope that Bellinger hadn't heard the movement under the bed, however quiet it had been.

There was a bit of rustling as Bellinger shifted. Then everything went quiet.

Bellinger was still there. Had he noticed something? Was he listening for sounds or perhaps preparing to attack them? Or at least confront them?

Sherlock considered their options. Bellinger was a very fit man and Sherlock wasn't exactly in good shape. But he could probably handle him. At least long enough for John to get away. And Bellinger wouldn't really hurt him. He knew Mycroft would go after him, diplomatic immunity or not.

Then Bellinger sighed deeply and a moment later started snoring.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, mind the warnings and tags.

"It was right on the fucking table," Jim screamed as he struck again, sending Sebastian spinning so that he stumbled and fell on the bed in a bruised and bleeding heap. "It was right there. Why the hell did you have to drag me off before I could get it? Don't you realise that this whole business was about getting that sodding recording? That I let Holmes fuck me so I could get it? I let him fuck me. Over and over."

Jim jumped up on the bed, straddling Sebastian's chest as he wrapped his hands around his throat and began squeezing.

Sebastian pulled at his hands and eventually managed to push him off. "Boss... With all due respect, if I hadn't dragged you out of there, we would probably have been shot."

"If you hadn't led that pathetic little soldier right to us, I would have finished and we'd not only be in possession of the evidence to bring down Holmes, but forever free of his imbecilic baby brother." Jim slapped him hard. "Now he's still out there and all this has been for nothing. For absolutely nothing. Thanks to you." He pulled back, only to punch Sebastian in the stomach as hard as he could.

Sebastian gasped and punched Jim's shoulder. Maybe he deserved his punishment, but he wasn't going to let it happen without any defence. "It's not like I knew he was following,” he said, once he found air again. “ _You_ were the one who told me to leave. You're to blame just as much."

Jim snarled and punched him in the face. "I didn't tell you to go out and advertise our location!" he screamed. "I didn't think you were that stupid." He punched his stomach again. "I guess I was stupid too. Thinking I could leave anything to you." Another punch. "Even something as simple as getting us something to fucking eat." Jim studied him for a moment, then began taking off his belt.

Sebastian sighed. His whole body hurt, but at least Jim was still taking his time with him. He could just as easily have killed him, but apparently he still had some value, even if it was only for ten minutes more. And as long as it wasn't lethal, he could endure anything.

"Well," he said calmly, wiping the blood off his mouth, "I guess that was a mistake."

Jim nodded, then grabbed Sebastian by the hair and pulled his head up. A moment later, Jim's belt was around his neck, so tight he could barely breathe. "Let's see if you hold out better than Sherlock," he said as he began pulling down Sebastian's jeans with one hand, holding on to the belt with the other.

Sebastian tried to swallow, which was made virtually impossible. He tugged at Jim's hand, but it only made the belt press even harder into his skin. Then he decided he needed more leverage and kicked his knee up into Jim's stomach.

Jim rolled away, groaning. But he did not let go of the belt. "Don't make this worse," he hissed, clawing his way onto Sebastian's body, pinning him down. "Take your punishment like a man, and I'll consider letting you live."

"How else would I take it?" Sebastian asked, starting to sound a little hoarse. "Like a sissy like you... with just enough power to buy himself anything, but no real strength?" He knew the talking was a bad idea, using up more breath than he could afford, but it was still worth it.

Jim screamed in rage and tightened the belt.

Sebastian gasped. But it didn't make any difference. He kicked again, but this time it was easy for Jim to dodge, and Sebastian's vision was becoming too blurred to land an effective punch.

He had almost passed out when Jim's fingers started fumbling with the belt. Vaguely, Sebastian was aware that Jim was taking it off, but it took a while before he finally realised that that meant he could take a deep breath, and by that time Jim had pushed Sebastian's hands back above his head and was tying them together with the belt. Sebastian started coughing painfully as the air reached his lungs, at which Jim pushed him hard in the chest, clearly annoyed that he didn't keep still. Then he rolled him over, pushing his face down in the mattress, and tied the belt to the headboard, keeping Sebastian's hands there in an uncomfortable angle. Sebastian groaned and tried to shift, but that immediately earned him a sharp flick against his ribs. As he heard Jim take off his pants behind him, he tried to speak, but it took several attempts before his voice would work.

"Why are you rewarding me?" he asked, hoping to manage a mocking tone.

Jim chuckled as he got in position behind Sebastian. "Don't thank me just yet," he said, reaching around to cover Sebastian's mouth and nose with his hand before pushing into him.

Sebastian grunted and tried shaking the hand off, but now Jim had him where he wanted him and there was nothing he could do except kicking back, which only made Jim giggle and fuck him harder. He just kept going, and eventually everything went black.

 

"Oh fucking hell," Sebastian groaned when he woke up, his throat sore and his whole body hurting.

"Thank you," Jim purred, nuzzling his neck. "It was good for me too."

Sebastian tried to move, but his hands were still tied to the headboard. He turned his head and squinted at Jim. "Let me go."

Jim kissed his nose. "Not yet, Tiger," he said, giggling. "I am not done with you yet."

Sebastian sighed. "Remind me why I put up with this..."

"Because you like it," Jim said, crawling up to lie on Sebastian's back, resting his head on the larger man's shoulder. "And because I pay you." He pushed Sebastian's legs apart and slipped into him again. "And because I would kill you if you ever tried to leave." He began rolling his hips slowly, almost lazily.

Sebastian rested his forehead on the mattress again. "I hate you."

"I hate you too," Jim said before biting Sebastian's ear.

 

…

 

Sebastian stretched and sighed, then cracked his fingers. His wrists were finally starting to feel like _his_ again. Leaning back against the wall, he pulled Jim against his chest. "About time you got rid of that belt."

Jim blew out the smoke he had just inhaled and giggled. "I don't know," he said. "I think it looked rather fetching on you."

Sebastian splayed a hand over Jim's stomach and pressed his lips against his neck. "Next time it's your turn."

Jim closed his eyes, sighing with content. "If you like," he said. "I was considering other ways of using the belt on you, but I don't mind letting you take over for a bit."

"Good. See? Not so bad having to stay in this hot Mexican hellhole..."

Jim huffed. "Yes it is. There is so much to be done back home. Holmes. The diplomat. The detective. All of them are free to cause all kinds of trouble while I'm stuck here." He gestured at the large, obscenely luxurious honeymoon suite that had been the only thing available at the new hotel.

"We can get back soon enough. When the security around Holmes' little brother is a little looser again. Give it some time." Sebastian plucked the cigarette from Jim's fingers and took a drag.

Jim snapped playfully at Sebastian's fingers, then turned around and kissed him before he could exhale.

Then he settled down, resting his head on his Tiger's chest.

"I want Sherlock dead," he muttered. "And his little doctor too."


	22. Chapter 22

"So there we were, hidden under that bed, and then Bellinger decided to actually take a nap. Of all times," John grumbled.

Mrs Hudson was giggling so loudly that for a moment, John was afraid his story was threatening her health.

"Well," he continued, as she had waved her hand in order to signal that she was alright to hear more, though still hiccupping from laughter, "I guess that in a way we were lucky. If he had come in right when we wanted to leave... At least there was time to hide now. But _two hours_ under a bed... I can't exactly recommend it."

She shook her head and wiped away a tear. "Poor Sherlock," she said once she was able to utter a word, though another high-pitched sound escaped her. "First beaten up so badly, and then cramped on a hard floor..."

"I know," John said, frowning a little and looking up as Sherlock entered from his bedroom.

"At least it was worth it.” Sherlock walked past them, holding up a flash drive. "Is there any tea?" he asked, getting a cup out of the cupboard.

"I'll make some," John said, getting up. "Didn't get the chance yet."

"No, I was too curious where you had been," Mrs Hudson smiled. "What a story! I hope you're alright, Sherlock."

Sherlock huffed and then brought his cup with him to the table before turning on his laptop. "I'm fine," he said. "Do we have any biscuits?"

"Bringing them," John called.

"Good thing John takes care of you," Mrs Hudson said to Sherlock. "Even though bringing you along for the break-in may not have been very responsible. How did you get out of there?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Bellinger woke up," he said. "And apparently decided to pop down to the shop. While he was gone, I found his laptop, got what I needed and we walked right out the front door. It was really quite simple."

"Yeah, almost a shame there isn't a more spectacular story to it," John said, putting a plate of biscuits on the table.

"Oh, I enjoyed it anyway," Mrs Hudson giggled.

"It doesn't matter either way," Sherlock said. "The only important thing is that soon we will know exactly where Bellinger is keeping the item he is trying to sell."

"I'm glad it was worth it," Mrs Hudson said, then stopped John as he wanted to pour her a cup of tea too. "Sorry, dear, I should go. Then you boys can have a look at what you found."

"Actually I think I'll have a look at Sherlock's back first," John smiled. "He's got some nasty cuts and if he wants to keep ignoring them, I'd better make sure they heal." He opened the door to let Mrs Hudson out.

"Good luck," she said, winking at Sherlock over her shoulder before leaving.

Sherlock sipped his tea while looking through the contents of his flash drive. When he sensed John's eyes on him, he looked up. He sighed. "Fine," he said. "Just let me send this to Mycroft first, okay?"

John nodded. "I'll go get my first aid kit."

When he returned, Sherlock hit 'send', closed his laptop and pushed it away.

"Good," John smiled. "Can you take off your shirt, please?" Even though he was usually more professional than that, he had to will himself not to blush. They had indeed spent almost two hours under that bed. Virtually pressed against each other. Close enough to feel each other's breath. Obviously they couldn't risk getting out of there with Bellinger in the room, even though the man had been fast asleep for most of the time. But it had reminded John of his time in Afghanistan. His time with Mary, more precisely, when he had been hesitating whether he wanted her as his girlfriend. The time when he had wondered if he was attracted to Sherlock. Wondered about his scent, which was now so familiar to him.

When John had moved in with the detective, he had shed the thought of any attraction to him as being a ridiculous notion, but lying so close to him that he was almost hugging him, for such a long time, had brought back the memories. And next thing, he was asking Sherlock to undress. With good reason, but it still felt... wrong. He was living with the man, for god's sake. And his search for a flat of his own would probably be paused, as Sherlock really needed a doctor around. It was actually quite fortunate that he was out of work again. He hadn't really been surprised that the hospital had replaced him by the time they got back from Mexico.

 

Sherlock groaned as he pulled the shirt over his head and then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

John put the kit down on the table and took out what he needed, before carefully peeling the old compresses off Sherlock's back. "Sherlock..." he said, "that's horrible..." He was actually talking about the large amount of cuts, but then the rest of the bandages came off and he finally saw the whole thing. He gasped and just stared at the words for several seconds.

"It turns out Moran is rather possessive," Sherlock said, smiling in spite of the pain.

"I... You... That... I mean..." John struggled for words. "I hope it won't scar," he managed weakly.

"Me too," Sherlock said. "I'd prefer not to be making that statement for the rest of my life."

John touched the skin above the highest cut. "I should have found you sooner."

"Don't blame yourself," Sherlock said. "I'm just glad you found me when you did. If I had had to rely on my brother, I'd be dead now."

"I'm sorry," John said, before he quietly got to work cleaning the cuts.

Sherlock groaned and winced when John touched him. Most of the cuts were healing well, but a few seemed slightly inflamed.

"Sorry," John said again. "I know this must hurt. I'm trying to be gentle, but..."

"Don't worry," Sherlock said. "I can take it. I'm just glad I don't have to do this myself."

John smiled. "Almost finished. And then I can cover it again. Is there anything else I can do?"

"No," Sherlock said. "I can handle the rest myself." After a moment he added: "Thank you."

"You're welcome." John fastened the last bandages before taking a step back to put the antiseptic and ointment back in the kit. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "I hope Mycroft has found them. And killed them."

"I doubt that," Sherlock said, reaching for his shirt. "If he had found them, we would know. And he would not kill them. Moriarty is far too valuable."

"No use having him alive after he has given all his information," John said, bitter.

"I don't think they'll ever get it all from him," Sherlock said, chuckling. "He'll always hold something back. For bargaining."

"But if he isn't telling, he has no use. Not much of a bargain there," John said coldly.

Sherlock smiled. "Still not going to happen, John. Mycroft does not kill for revenge. Only when people are more useful dead than alive. Like Bellinger, if we cannot find another way of getting into his bank box."

"Why doesn’t he just have Bellinger locked up? Force him to hand over the vial. Why would killing him be any more use than killing Moriarty? At least Bellinger is no direct threat to _your_ health," John said.

"Locking Bellinger up would achieve nothing.” Sherlock shrugged. “He would refuse to cooperate and since he is a diplomat, Mycroft cannot just make him disappear. He would have to let him speak to his lawyer, through whom he'd close the sale and the virus would be on enemy hands. But if Bellinger dies, his possessions, including the contents of his bank box, will be handed over to his next of kin. Who happens to be a very nice young lady who has already agreed to returning the virus to Baskerville for destruction. So... Bellinger is worth more to the world dead than alive."

"So our act of burglary might actually save his life, if the files tell Mycroft enough to get into the bank box?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said, smiling. "Bellinger should be thanking us."

John snorted. "He really should. My shoulder won't forgive me easily."

 

...

 

"You look... happy..." John said sarcastically when he entered the kitchen with his groceries.

Sherlock glared at his phone, which he had just thrown down on the table. "I've been getting threatening calls," he said darkly.

"Oh?" John frowned. "What kind?"

"My brother," Sherlock said. "He has found my one weakness and is using it to teach me what happens when I meddle in his work."

John was startled. "He hasn't found a way to keep you from working, has he?"

Sherlock groaned. "No. He just assured me that the next time I save half the Western world, he _will_ be getting me that knighthood whether I want it or not."

John stared at him for a while. He had been fearing Sherlock would be punished for causing a security leak. That there was some kind of consequence. "So..." he said, "I take it Bellinger's files were of use?"

Sherlock nodded. "The virus is on its way to Baskerville as we speak," he said. "It will be destroyed before the day is over. And Bellinger has been taken into custody. He is going to give them everyone who made an offer on the virus in exchange for a reduced sentence at a... secure facility."

John nodded. "Glad to hear that. And you really don't think Sir Sherlock Holmes has a nice ring to it?" He smirked.

Sherlock did not answer, but just glared at him.

John chuckled and started putting things in the fridge. "I guess it could have been worse."

Sherlock glanced over at him. "Any feet left in there?" he asked. "Or did you throw them all out?"

"I didn't, but I think Mrs Hudson may have been around... By now they'd probably be useless for your experiment anyway," John shrugged.

"They would have been ideal for a different experiment," Sherlock said, pouting slightly.

"Nothing to do about it now," John said, closing the fridge.

Sherlock groaned. "I'm bored. I need a case. Something..."

John sighed. "You know you should get some rest."

"I already did. Under the bed, remember?" Sherlock said, getting up. "I'm going out," he said, heading for his coat.

John sighed. "Can I come with you?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but shrugged. "Sure," he said. "If you want."

"Where are we going?" John asked, grabbing his jacket.

"Barts," Sherlock said. "I need new feet."

John nodded. It was probably best to let Sherlock do his experiments. As long as there weren't any severed heads staring at him every time he wanted to take the milk, he could live with it.

 

…

 

"Oh, hi," Molly greeted them, a little breathless. She looked up at Sherlock's face. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock frowned at her. "Of course I am," he said. "Do you have any feet?"

"Erm, I, erm... I can have a look, but..."

Sherlock looked at her for a long moment, then said a very articulated: "Thank you," as if hoping it would prompt her into action.

"Well, I suppose... Yes." She walked towards the door.

John shook his head a little. The poor girl was completely dazzled just from Sherlock's appearance.

Then Molly stopped and turned again. "I just remembered," she said, "I still have the results from that blood test you wanted."

"What blood test?" Sherlock asked.

"The one John brought in last week," she said, smiling. "Had a lot going on then, if you don't remember?"

John winced. He had forgotten all about the blood sample Sherlock had demanded when he had been trying to figure out what he felt for James.

"I'm not sure Sherlock still wants..." he started.

"Where is it?" Sherlock interrupted him. "Let me see it."

"Sure," Molly nodded, walking over to a desk and rummaging for a moment before handing him a piece of paper.

John bit his lip.

Sherlock looked through the results, frowning. "This can't be right," he muttered. Then he looked over at John for a moment then shook his head. "Molly," he said, suddenly turning to look at her. "Are you in love?"

"W-what? Why do you ask?" Molly answered, clearly panicking a little.

After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock attempted a warm smile. "Because it would make things a lot easier if you were," he said.

"What?" She was staring at him.

He tilted his head a little and made puppy eyes. "Come on, Molly," he said. "You can tell us."

John was looking from Sherlock to Molly, his eyes also wide in disbelief. "You can't just ask her that without telling her why," he said quickly, hoping to limit the damage.

Sherlock looked over at John. "Tell her why? Isn't it obvious?" he asked.

"You... want to compare results?" John guessed.

Molly's face fell a little.

Sherlock nodded. "Of course." He turned to Molly again. "Are you?" he asked. "Anyone special in your life at the moment?"

"I... Erm... Sort of?" she said hesitantly, chewing her lip.

"Wonderful," Sherlock said. "Can I take some blood?"

For a moment, Molly's eyes flashed to John, uncertain, before she nodded slowly. "If you want to..."

"John?" Sherlock said. "Will you do the honours?" He reached out and took Molly's hand and then began rolling up her sleeve. "I'm going to need you to do something for me Molly," he said, smiling at her.

"Something else?" she asked with a little laugh, answering John's questioning look with a wave that showed him where he could find what he needed to draw the blood.

"I want you to focus on this special person," Sherlock said, looking into her eyes. "Imagine that they are standing right in front of you, smiling at you. Touching you. Can you do that?" He began massaging her arm to get a vein ready for John.

She stared up at him for a moment, apparently forgetting to breathe. "Sure..." she said, her voice almost a squeak.

John gave Sherlock a look, but knew it was completely lost on him. He made quick work of taking the blood sample and tried to ignore how Molly's breathing had sped up a little.

"Tell me how you're feeling," Sherlock asked, not letting go of Molly's hand as he studied her eyes. "When you think of this person... Does your heart beat faster? Does something clench inside you?"

"Yes," Molly said breathlessly. "It's like this sort of... drag..."

"Won't the blood tell you enough, Sherlock?" John sighed.

"Of course not," Sherlock said. "I need all the data to do a proper comparison."

John rubbed his face, suppressing the urge to groan. "I'm sure Molly has other work to do. You wanted feet, remember?"

Sherlock nodded and let go of Molly's hand. "Of course," he said. "Feet."

"What exactly are you comparing?" Molly asked, looking a little lost at her free hand.

"I may or may not have been in love when that blood was drawn," Sherlock said. "I won't know if I can use the results of my test without comparing it to yours."

"You?" Molly asked. "So... Who's the lucky one?" She laughed a little uncomfortably.

"No one," Sherlock said turning away from her abruptly. "He... He wasn't who I thought he was..."

"Oh."

John winced again as realisation dawned on her face.

"Right," Molly said, quickly walking to the door, "I'll, er, get some feet. Anything else?" She was already out.

John shook his head and looked at Sherlock. "That was a bit not good."

Sherlock frowned. "Why? Did something go wrong with the sample?" he asked.

"No, Sherlock." John rolled his eyes. "Did you really not realise, with all your deductions, who she was talking about?"

He looked over at the door where Molly had disappeared, then back to John. Then his eyebrows shot upwards. "Oh..." he said slowly. "Molly's in love with you?"

John snorted. "Yeah, obviously. My charms know no end," he said sarcastically. "She doesn't even know me. Probably didn't even really notice I'm here, actually, since she had other things to focus on. Do I really need to spell it out?"

Sherlock just looked blankly at him. Waiting.

"Oh, god." John really couldn't hide his annoyance now. "You're supposed to be a genius. It's you!"

Sherlock frowned, then chuckled. "Right, John... Very funny," he said, and then turned away as the door opened again.

"What? No..." John sputtered, but then Molly entered with a bag of feet and he decided to shut up.

"There you go," Molly said flatly, handing the bag to Sherlock. "I'll have a look at the blood sample and email you the results. Good afternoon."

Sherlock beamed at her. "Thank you Molly. You're a gem." He glanced over at John and then headed for the door, humming as he studied the contents of the bag.

"Sorry," John said to Molly, not knowing what else to say.

For some reason, she glared at him before she turned away.

 

...

Sherlock didn’t talk about what the blood results had told him so far, so John let it rest for now. After all, the experiment wasn’t finished, and he knew how Sherlock could get if he insinuated he was jumping to conclusions before having all the evidence.

The experiment with the feet was delayed as Lestrade called. Since they now knew for certain who had killed Jane Levington, her case was being wrapped up and a file on Moriarty opened. John sent him the pictures of ‘James’ from his phone to add to it. But as expected, there had been no sign of Moriarty and Moran since the moment they had escaped Mycroft’s men.

It took Molly two days to send Sherlock the report on her own blood values. Sherlock had just taken a break, waiting for the effects of some reagents on a disassembled foot, when his laptop chimed.

John looked up as Sherlock opened it and made a strange sound.

"It..." he said hesitantly, "seems that whatever Molly is feeling... I was feeling too at the time. At least on a chemical level..." He looked up at John. "So... I guess I can use the results in future cases..." He did not seem particularly pleased about the results.

John frowned. So Sherlock really had been just as smitten as poor Molly was with him? It sent a surge of anger through him. That Moriarty had managed the impossible, making Sherlock Holmes fall in love with him, just to hurt him in so many ways. But also that Sherlock had fallen for it, while he could have so much better.

Of course, he wasn't planning to tell Sherlock what exactly he thought of it. Instead he said, "I'm sorry. It must have hurt that he... wasn't who you thought he was."

Sherlock sighed. "Yes," he said. "He did make quite a fool of me. No one has ever managed to trick me like that before. It figures that it would take a genius to pull that off."

John bit his lip. It probably took a genius to be interesting enough to Sherlock to make him fall in love in the first place. He put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "We'll find him. And then he'll pay for all he's done..."

Sherlock looked up at him and then smiled. "Of course we will," he said. "He's lost his advantage. We know who he is now."

John nodded. "So... Molly," he said.

"What about her?" Sherlock asked, looking slightly exasperated at John's change of subject.

"Well..." John hesitated for a moment. "She feels about you the way you felt about James. Does she have any chance with you?"

"What?" Sherlock made a face. "No, John. Of course not..." He shook his head and then focused back on the screen.

John didn't know if he was relieved or annoyed at how little Sherlock cared about her. "Well, I guess she suspects as much now."

"Huh? Yeah, sure," Sherlock said, clearly not listening.

John sighed and sat down to listen to Sherlock's occasional thinking out loud. Then a smile spread out on his face. At least Sherlock was himself again.

 

…

 

Their next case came in later that week, and although John suspected that by then Sherlock would have taken just about anything to chase away the boredom, it was intriguing enough to keep them busy for a few days. From that moment on, they went back to work like usual, with John keeping an eye on Sherlock’s healing process. Fortunately, even the cuts on his back left minimal scarring, and after a few weeks the detective was once again fit enough to run through the streets of London for long hours.

As soon as John was assured Sherlock didn’t need a doctor by his side all the time, he applied for another job. However, trying to save an old woman from being drowned by her grandson made him miss his interview, and as new cases kept coming in, he didn’t get another chance. Yet it was good to be so busy. For both of them. Boredom and dark thoughts hardly had the time to slip in, for which John was grateful, even if he wondered whether Lestrade was calling in their help so often because he was actually desperate or because he just wanted to keep an eye on Sherlock. Either way, it helped Sherlock’s reputation, leading more and more clients his way who actually paid for his services.

Although Sherlock clearly didn’t care about the money and he always lent John his card to do the shopping without thinking about it twice, John still insisted on paying part of the rent to Mrs Hudson as long as he lived there. He simply didn’t have time to find another place, and to be honest he didn’t really want to. Neither of them ever addressed the subject of John staying to live at Baker Street, but Sherlock certainly didn’t seem to object, gladly taking advantage of having someone around to take care of some of the more common things in life that didn’t require much brain work.

All the work also helped to bring the old Sherlock back, like John had known him before his relationship with James. Sherlock’s full focus was back on the work, but the moments when he and John were talking and laughing just as comfortably as they had done in their old Skype conversations also returned more and more often.

Although he told himself that it was because Sherlock’s boyfriend had actually been a dangerous criminal, John couldn’t help feeling guilty at the enormous relief he felt now Sherlock was once again unattached. James might have made him happy at the time, but it had always been a distraction to Sherlock, and something standing between him and John. Now it was just the two of them again, and John felt selfish knowing he’d prefer it that way even if Sherlock’s boyfriend had actually been an honest man.

All the cases and the pleasant times at the flat, which John now truly considered his home, even managed to make John forget about the question whether he actually wanted to date anyone or not. He still thought of Mary every day, although fortunately the pain had diminished somewhat, but it was mainly all the time he spent helping Sherlock that made the decision very easy. When John was out for a drink with Liz to fill her in on what had happened, she laughed at his explanation that he simply didn’t have time for a relationship. Her wink implied she believed just the same rumours about him and Sherlock that John had heard going around among the police and even their clients, and at which he could only roll his eyes.

Even Harry teased him with his male flatmate these days, but in a way, that was only a relief. About a month after the incidents in Mexico, John had finally gathered the courage to go meet his sister. As soon as she had opened the door and saw it was him, Harry had wrapped him in her arms so tightly she almost strangled him, sobbing that she had wanted to reach out to him as soon as she had heard he was invalided home, but she had been too ashamed, too embarrassed after everything she had called him the last time they saw each other and not sure if John ever wanted to see her again. She had, however, finally sought help, wanting to make up for her behaviour in some way, and John could see she was doing well. Feeling proud of her, he promised they would keep in touch from now on, so he could encourage her to stay strong.

 

When he sent an email to Clara to report how it had gone, her answer sounded genuinely relieved and she told John she was happy they had managed to make it up. Still, it was clear that she was not planning to follow his example and reach out to Harry again. It really was over between the two of them. Of course, John still couldn’t blame her.

 

Almost three months went by without any news on Moriarty and Moran. Sherlock had hidden the recording of him questioning Jenny Smith in a safe place even John didn’t know, to avoid Moriarty getting to it. John was certain that Mycroft had taken his own measures to avoid a crisis, knowing how much Moriarty could have gathered from hacking into his systems. During all that time, Sherlock had kept the Moriarty case running in the background, helping the police to expand the file on Moriarty and doing his own research. It worried all of them that there was simply nothing. It was as if the two criminals had just vanished. But Sherlock had never given up his obsessive attempts to find Moriarty, sometimes driving it so far that John actually worried Sherlock was still in love, whether it was with the brilliant criminal or with the persona of James. Every new case that presented itself seemed to give the detective a glimpse of hope that this would be the one, the trap that Moriarty had laid out for him to get their final confrontation. And with every solved case turning out to have nothing to do with the consulting criminal, Sherlock’s frustration seemed to grow under the surface.

Then, finally, there was a call from Mycroft.


	23. Chapter 23

Sherlock jumped from the cab and, ignoring the young police woman who tried to ask him who he was, leapt straight over the police tape and ran into the main building of the prison without even checking if John was following or not.

But sure enough, only a moment after he had rushed into the prison warden’s office, John was at his side. The warden was standing by the window, looking anxiously out at the thin column of smoke that was still rising from what used to be the east wing of the large building. Behind his desk, his eyes closed in thought, sat Mycroft.

“So, brother,” Sherlock said. “Why have you called me here?”

Mycroft opened his eyes and looked up at him. “Well, it seems like your long wait is over.”

The warden looked confused for a moment.

“He’s back?” Sherlock asked eagerly. “Are you sure?”

John made a small disapproving sound, looking a little annoyed at Sherlock’s enthusiasm, but both brothers ignored him.

“We’re not entirely sure, of course,” Mycroft said. “No one has been seen, and yet, somehow a bomb got past our security. That in its own might indicate that he had something to do with it. And then the fact that the explosion happened from the cell next to Sir Bellinger’s…”

Sherlock frowned. “Is he dead?” he asked.

“He has been brought to the hospital, but there is only a very small chance he will make it through his injuries,” Mycroft said.

John shifted, looking distressed.

After a moment, Sherlock shrugged. It didn’t really matter whether the man lived or died. He was no longer important. “I need to see the cell,” he said. “And the files on its occupant.”

Mycroft gave the warden a look, making the man nod quickly while he had been looking uncertain just a moment before.

“Come along,” Mycroft said, getting up.

 

The explosion had taken out three of the walls and most of the ceiling of the cell where it had started, and completely scorched the neighbouring cells as well as most of the corridor on that level.

“Careful,” the warden said as Sherlock stepped over the ruined remains of the door.

“So,” Sherlock said to John, who was holding the file. “This man, Andrews, was a banker? Who got a bit too creative with company funds?”

John thumbed through the papers, but the warden answered before he could reach the right file.

“Yes,” he said. “He did not survive the blast…”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said impatiently. “He was a family man? How many children? How old?”

Mycroft frowned. “How does that matter?”

“I need to know what kind of pressure Moriarty could put on him,” Sherlock said. “How close he would have to get.”

“He had three children,” John read with a sigh. “Between 13 and 17 years old.”

“Ah… Kids are stupid at that age,” Sherlock said. “One or more of them might have made it extremely easy for Moriarty. We should get their internet records. For the past… three months.”

“You think he could have forced one of the children to bring in the bomb that killed their own father?” John asked incredulously.

“No, but I think he got close enough to one of the children to use them as a… motivation… for their father to do this,” he said, frowning slightly at John.

John bit his lip. “Then better don’t let them know what the consequences were.”

“Anything you can make of the type of bomb?” Mycroft asked Sherlock.

"Well... I'm not a weapons expert," Sherlock said, crouching down to examine some fragments on the floor. "But it was very powerful, considering how small it must have been for Andrews to have gotten it in here unnoticed."

"Any idea on how he smuggled it in?" the warden asked.

"His family visited him recently," Sherlock said. "I expect one of his children brought a gift for daddy. Though I doubt they knew what they were really giving him."

The warden sighed, shaking his head.

"Anything else?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock looked around the ruined cell. "Not until I've talked to the family," he said. "I suppose they have been summoned?"

"We sent some people to bring them the bad news," Mycroft said. "You can imagine we want to keep the police out of this. Not that I believe this won't leak eventually. If this was indeed Moriarty's doing, that was probably his intention all along and the news will be out by now."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine," he said. "Take me to them, then."

 

…

 

Two hours later, Sherlock felt like he might explode if someone looked at him the wrong way. The widow was refusing to let him talk to any of the children. Just plain refusing it. Something about traumatising the children or some other such nonsense. And he couldn’t talk to her because she had to be with the kids, who were still very upset about the news of their father’s death.

Mycroft’s car had taken them to the house, but they had been met in the door by a woman who turned out to be Andrews’ mother in law, and who was apparently completely incapable of understanding basic logical reasoning.

He had been polite. Then stern. He had yelled at her, threatened her and even begged, but she would not budge.

In the end, John had practically dragged him off, telling him it was no use to keep harassing the woman. He proposed to go back to the flat, but Sherlock didn’t even let him finish the suggestion. As soon as the children had had some time to calm down, he would try again. And if that ridiculous woman still wouldn’t let him enter, then he’d find other ways to have a look inside the house. Either way, they needed to stay around.

Still, John had a point that it was no use to go sit on the curb. It would probably take a little more time for the mother to comfort the children, so he conceded and let John haul him to a café less than a 10 minute walk from the house.

There was no reason to waste any time, of course, so as soon as he was seated he got to work. Had Moriarty set up all this from abroad or was he really back in the country? Working _with_ his brother for once, did have its advantages and soon Sherlock received an email with the internet logs from the Andrews residence. Unfortunately, all four computers in the house were registered to the father’s name, so Sherlock could not determine which of the children had done what. But at least he could start looking for patterns or contacts, so he would know where to start, once he could get his hands on the kids themselves. Or at least their phones, tablets and laptops.

John sat fidgeting, now and then sipping his coffee. “Can I do something?” he asked.

Sherlock frowned at his phone then nodded. “You can go make a profile at RightAmor.com,” he said.

John started typing on his phone, then blinked as he read the slogan out loud. “‘ _You met him on RightAmor, AmorRight?_ ’ I mean… what? I’m really not looking for someone right now...” He looked very confused.

“No, but someone in that family was. So I need to know how effectively they screen for age. If it’s just a matter of clicking ‘yes, I’m 18’ or if you have to prove your identity somehow.” Sherlock scrolled down on the phone. “While you’re there, check the profile of Fun4u. And who’s on their friends-list.”

“Oh. Okay.” John seemed a little relieved as he took out his phone.

Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes, thinking.

Suddenly, John snorted. “I’m really _not_ completing that profile.”

Sherlock smiled. “Oh? You don’t think the future Mrs Watson could be hidden somewhere in there?”

“I doubt I could live with someone who thoughtlessly completes all of _those_ picture sections…” John shook his head at his phone. “Fortunately they’re not obligatory. I can have a look now.”

Sherlock moved to sit next to him. “Can you search for the specific profile?”

John nodded and typed the name.

“What about your age?” Sherlock asked while John was searching for the right profile. “Did you just have to type it in or did they need some kind of confirmation?”

“No,” John shrugged. “It was just clicking a button. And you couldn’t give up an age younger than 18, but it’s easy enough to lie.”

Well, that was to be expected. “So, what does the profile tell us? Which of the kids are too curious for their own good?”

“Ehm.” John was blushing. “I seriously hope Fun4u isn’t one of the children. It looks more like that’d be the mother…”

Sherlock looked and snorted. “Unless one of the kids was really sneaky with a camera, I would say you are correct,” he said. “Looks like it’s just Mrs Andrews we have to talk to. Is she popular?” he asked, pointing to her friends-list.

John opened the list. “She’s only got 5 friends on here. Maybe she wasn’t all that active.”

Sherlock scanned the icons. “Those two,” he said. “Check their profiles. See when they were last on.”

John complied. “This one was online yesterday evening. And JungleT…” He waited for the page to load, muttering something about what people were thinking when they chose those nicknames. “Ha. Last week, apparently. On Wednesday.” He handed Sherlock the phone to look.

Sherlock skimmed down the profile then gasped.

The text part of the profile began: “ _Thomas the Junglecat on the prowl. Tiger needs his Sugar._ ” A little further down, it said: “ _After some time abroad I am back in my old neighbourhood looking for friends to play with, both new and old._ ” There were a few blank lines and then: “ _Come and get me._ ”

Sherlock huffed and closed the tab. “That smug little piece of shit,” he snarled. “He’s not even trying to cover his tracks. It’s like this entire profile was made for my benefit.”

John raised his eyebrows. “ _Your_ benefit?”

Sherlock sighed and handed John the phone. “Log on again,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

When John had read it, he was frowning. “Yeah, that won’t be a coincidence. They must have known you would come to read it after the explosion. And ‘Sugar’...”

Sherlock nodded. “Jame… Moriarty had a poster of tigers in his flat. And I think I heard him call Moran ‘Tiger’ in Mexico. Thomas was my name when I worked for Moran. I… I guess they’re back in London and want to… play…”

“Tell Mycroft,” John said. “He can probably find them now.”

“Not if they don’t want him to find them. I think this invitation is for me alone.”

“You’re not going there on your own,” John said, shaking his head.

Sherlock could not help but smile. “Oh… Are you going to chaperone again?” he teased.

John gave him a look. “I hope your memory is good enough to remember what happened last time you were around them without back-up. So yeah. I’m coming with you.”

Sherlock looked John in the eyes. He did indeed remember what happened the last time. And he would probably not have done this if he hadn't known John would have his back. No need to tell John this, of course. He nodded. "If you want to come along, that's up to you," he said. "I can't promise I can protect you."

"Fine," John said in a resolute tone of voice. "I've got my gun with me, so I'm ready."

Sherlock nodded and got to his feet. "I'll get us a cab," he said, heading for the door.

 

…

 

As soon as he was in the cab, Sherlock got out his phone again and dialled Mycroft’s number.

“Did you talk to them?” Mycroft asked immediately.

“Of course I didn’t,” Sherlock said. “ _Somebody_ had warned the Widow Andrews that letting me near her offspring in this time of crisis would be a bad idea. Now I cannot imagine who could have done such a thing, but given the circumstances, it proved quite serendipitous.”

Mycroft sighed. “I guess you have your own tact to blame. I certainly didn’t give the order to work against you.”

“I know, brother dear,” Sherlock said, chuckling. “But give my thanks to whichever one of your minions did. Being forced to wait has, for once, proven beneficial. I cannot waste time on the family. Though someone should talk to them. I am pretty sure that the woman is going to need some kind of help in dealing with her hand in her husband’s death.”

“So it was the woman after all?” Mycroft said. “I taught you not to theorise before having gathered all the facts, Sherlock.”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, biting back the obvious reply. “Once she’s agreed to speak to someone, they should first of all find out if her activities with JungleT were all online or if they met in person. And if they did: when and where.”

“JungleT?” Mycroft repeated.

“Moran’s online name, it would seem. Moriarty used him to get close to her and somehow, probably by threatening exposure or… No… definitely harm to her children, convinced her to bring the bomb into the prison. Whether she knew what it was or not, I cannot say for sure, but once confronted with the evidence, I am confident she will tell you.”

“I will put someone on it,” Mycroft said. “So what is your plan of action now?”

“I am taking John out for a pint,” Sherlock said. “I owe him one for helping me with figuring all this out.”

“Very urgent indeed,” Mycroft said. “Fine, if you won’t even trust me while we are working on the same case… I suppose that at least Doctor Watson will have enough common sense to take action when necessary.”

“I believe he will,” Sherlock said. “Keep me informed.” He hung up and then turned to smile at John. “My brother says he trusts you to keep me safe,” he said. “Better not let him down.”


	24. Chapter 24

_‘Come out and play. I am waiting at our old watering hole - Sugar4u’_

 

Sebastian snorted as he read the short message on his phone. “You were right,” he called. “Didn’t take him long. He must have missed you.”

“Of course,” Jim said, walking out of the bathroom, naked except for the towel over his head.

“Better get dressed,” Sebastian said with an appreciative look over his body. “He may already be at the pub.”

Jim pouted. “But I wanted you to suck me,” he said, towelling his hair. “Can’t we just send him a message or something?”

“A deadly message?” Sebastian asked.

“Nope,” Jim said. “I want the pleasure of delivering that particular message myself. Just something to bring him to us. But in a more… private setting. I have something I really want to try before we get rid of him.”

Sebastian raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t get enough of him earlier?”

“I want to share him with you, Tiger,” Jim said. “One at each end.”

Sebastian wrinkled his nose. “I’m not sure I want to touch that bastard again. I was finished with him. He should have died back then.”

Jim pouted again. “Not even for me?” he asked. “I want to watch you fuck him. I never had the pleasure.”

“Then you should have put up a camera.”

“It wouldn’t be the same,” Jim said, walking over to him and reaching up for a kiss. “I want to be right there, with my cock down Sherlock’s throat while you fuck him. I want to see him squirm.” He giggled. “We could trade places afterwards. How do you think he’d like that?” He let the towel drop and reached around to grab Sebastian’s bum.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Why do you care what _he_ likes and never ask about me?”

Jim kissed him again. “I’m sorry, Tiger,” he said. “Would you like to fuck Sherlock’s arse or mouth? Or both? Or neither?”

“Neither. I want to kill him.”

Jim studied him for a moment, then took a step back and slapped him hard. “Don’t be such a wet blanket,” he said, and then turned around and stalked back into the bathroom.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. Fine, if Jim didn’t want his Tiger to suck him after all... “So what do we send him?” he called.

After a moment Jim opened the door just enough to stick his head out and grin impishly at Sebastian. “It’s Miller time,” he said.

 

…

 

As they lay snuggled up on the bed, there were only pub noises to listen to for a while. They weren’t interesting, so they ended up having a bit of a fight about whose arm could lie on top, and Jim had just bitten Sebastian quite hard when John Watson’s voice sounded.

“Shush,” Sebastian hissed, waving at the laptop.

“Miller?” Watson sounded confused, and soon his voice sounded closer to the microphone. “What are you doing here?”

"Meeting you, obviously," Miller grunted in his usual charming way.

"But..." Watson sounded uncertain. "We weren't really expecting... _you_."

There was a pause. "Still so fucking clever, aren’t you?" Miller said.

Sebastian smirked at Jim for a moment.

"You were working for them? All along?" Watson asked incredulously.

"Of course he wasn't," Sherlock chimed in. "They have some kind of hold on him. They're forcing him to be their messenger."

Miller huffed.

Jim giggled and shook his head. "No shit, Sherlock," he said and then snuggled even closer to Sebastian.

Sebastian snorted and threaded his fingers through Jim's hair, just a little too fast to be pleasant.

The Idiot Captain sounded worried now. "What do they have on you? Can we help you?" he asked softly, as if that would keep them from hearing. Watson really was a fool if he thought they would send someone out without bugging him.

Jim squeaked, but then moved his head a little against Sebastian's hand to make him pull harder.

"You can drop dead for all I care," Miller said. "I'm just here to give you this."

"Let us help you." Watson was almost begging.

Sebastian rolled his eyes in disgust, loosening his grip on Jim's hair.

Jim pouted and rubbed his head against Sebastian's hand. "Do it again," he begged.

"If you want to help me," Miller said, sounding like he just might snap, "take this, and leave me the hell alone."

There was some rustling and the sound of Miller breathing quickly.

"Miller!" Watson called after him, but then there was the sound of a door being opened and the pub noises were replaced by street sounds.

"Drama queen," Sebastian muttered.

Jim giggled. "He gave them the stick," he said. "That's what's important." He nuzzled Sebastian's hand.

Sebastian sighed and shut the laptop, then tangled all his fingers in Jim's hair and pulled. "Now what?"

Jim gasped happily. "We... wait..." he said. "Find a way to... pass the time..."

"Ideas, Boss?" Sebastian asked, leaning in very close to Jim's lips.

Jim smiled, pulling against Sebastian's grip again. "Showing me how big and strong you are?" he asked, sounding a little breathless. "Making me sorry for what I did?"

"Oh, Kitten. You'll only see it as a reward," Sebastian said, before finally closing the distance and kissing him hard, rolling them over so Jim ended up on his back.

Jim giggled happily and squirmed under Sebastian.

Sebastian bent over and bit Jim's ear, meanwhile pinning his hands against the mattress next to his head.

Jim looked up at him, his eyes sparkling though he did, almost, manage not to grin smugly at getting things his way.

Sebastian smirked at the sight. As long as it was also _his_ way, he didn't mind giving Jim what he wanted.

He lowered his body so that his cock pressed against Jim's. "Completely powerless," he mumbled contentedly as he heard Jim gasp.

Jim wriggled his arms a little, testing Sebastian's grip, then nodded happily. "I'm at your mercy," he purred. "Helpless to resist."

"Exactly." Sebastian bent his head again and bit Jim's neck, stopping just before he broke the skin.

Jim whimpered and then bucked his hips, rubbing his cock against Sebastian's. "Harder...." he moaned. "Make me bleed."

"Oh, maybe I will... But I'll do it my way," Sebastian said, pulling back and letting go of Jim's hands. He'd find out soon enough if Jim really intended to be a good Kitten or not.

Jim did not move as he looked up at him, waiting patiently. "Yes, Tiger," he said softly.

Sebastian grinned, delighted. "Good... Now turn around."

Jim bit his lip, trying to control his grin as he quickly rolled over onto his stomach.

Sebastian leaned back to take the lube from the nightstand and apply it onto his cock, then waited.

Jim looked back over his shoulder and wiggled his arse impatiently. "Well?" he asked.

Sebastian slapped the skin. "Try a little patience. And hold still."

Jim yelped and turned his head, but kept squirming a little.

"I said," Sebastian growled, grabbing Jim's hips, "hold still."

"You know I can't," Jim snapped, struggling against his hold.

"You'll have to. I'm not fucking you as long as you haven't held still," Sebastian shrugged.

Jim clenched his hands, clearly having to focus hard to keep still. He groaned softly. "For how long?" he whined.

"Oh, not much longer," Sebastian said, lining up against his hole. "I just needed to see how badly you want me. How you will take every order just to feel me..." He pushed.

"Fuck you," Jim groaned, pushing back against him.

Sebastian chuckled, rolling his hips. "And everyone thinks you're clever..."

Jim huffed and bucked up so hard he almost pushed Sebastian off. "Cleverer than you," he snapped.

"Well, I'm the one fucking _you_ here," Sebastian pointed out, thrusting hard and pushing Jim down by his shoulder.

"Because I want you to," Jim answered, clenching hard around him.

"Exactly. Because you're gagging for it." Sebastian once again took hold of Jim's hips, pulling him up a little, and pounded into him.

Jim groaned. "Shut up..." he muttered into the pillow.

Sebastian made his thrusts even more forceful and wrapped a hand around Jim's cock. "What did you say?"

"Shut up," Jim repeated, thrusting into his hand, then pushing back against him.

"Can't you say anything nicer? I am, after all, still being nice to you..."

"And still not shutting up," Jim said, clenching around him again. "Do I need to put something in your mouth to achieve that?"

"You wish. But you had your chance there," Moran said, groaning as he sped up and squeezed Jim’s cock, just a little too hard.

Jim grunted, but did not retort.

Sebastian let go of his cock and bit down on his shoulder.

Jim cried out and arched his back. "Ti... Tiger..." he groaned. "Please..."

"Now be a good Kitten and I'll let you finish," Sebastian whispered against his skin.

"I'm never good," Jim muttered. "But I'll try... For you..."

"There's a difference," Sebastian gasped, grabbing Jim's wrists and pushing them into the pillow, "between being _good_ and being a good Kitten..." He bit him again, not quite hard enough, and kept thrusting forcefully.

"Yes..." Jim whimpered. "Yes Tiger..."

"More like it," Sebastian growled, and finally he planted his teeth in Jim's neck hard enough to tear the skin, moving his head and groaning as he tasted blood on his tongue. He felt his orgasm approach and held Jim where he was, fucking him into the mattress until he finally released.

Jim cried out and and tensed under him. "Touch me..." he whispered. "Please... I'm so close..."

Sebastian groaned, riding the waves of pleasure. "Better keep behaving," he muttered, pulling Jim up a little to stroke his cock lazily.

"Yes... Yes Tiger," Jim gasped, fighting to raise himself up further.

"You stay where you are," Sebastian growled, making the threat sound clear in his voice. He just wanted to doze off, so Jim had better be grateful he was still taking care of him.

Jim whined but did not move again. "Please..." he whispered.

Sebastian tightened his grip a little and softly bit the earlier wound in Jim's neck, making it sting.

Jim gasped and then, trembling beneath him, came all over his hand.

"Finally," Sebastian mumbled, pulling out and lying down on his stomach next to Jim.

Jim moaned softly and snuggled up to him. "Thank you, Tiger," he purred, kissing Sebastian's shoulder.

Sebastian huffed, but flung an arm over Jim's waist.

"Don't be like that, Tiger," Jim muttered, continuing to kiss and nibble at his skin. "I'll be a good Kitten. I promise."

"Hmm. Better be," Sebastian said, closing his eyes.

Jim giggled and gave his shoulder a soft bite before settling down and sighing happily.

Sebastian hummed and fell asleep, secretly pleased.


	25. Chapter 25

John frowned at the small, black USB drive in Sherlock's hand. Miller had run off, and it hadn't been worth it to run after him, not when there was a chance he would bring the former lieutenant in danger by doing so. But the message he had left was far from clear.

"CAM?" John read the white letters on the drive, giving Sherlock a questioning look.

"An acronym," Sherlock said, examining it. "We need to get this home so I can find out what is on it."

John nodded, thinking. "Why would Moriarty want to _give_ you information?"

"To get me into trouble," Sherlock said, hailing a cab for them. "To get me to come out and play."

John studied Sherlock's face for a moment. It was like he was trying to stay neutral, but there was a glimmer in his eyes that told John enough. "You're actually glad he's back," he said flatly.

Sherlock looked at him, frowning. "No," he said. "I mean... I'm not displeased that we finally have something to do. Something that just might prove to be a worthwhile challenge."

"Hm," John said shortly. "As much as I like to help you with your work, I do hope that this will be over soon and without any more people getting hurt."

"I doubt that our involvement will get more people hurt than if we just backed off," Sherlock said, twirling the USB between his fingers.

"Probably," John said with a tilt of his head. "I had just hoped that we had saved Bellinger. And now he got hurt and someone else went down with him, someone with a family. You'd think Moriarty gets bored of causing other people pain, but..." He shook his head.

"I think that a bored Moriarty is the last thing we want," Sherlock said, smiling a little.

 

...

 

Back in Baker Street, they didn't waste any time. John snatched his laptop from the table and handed it to Sherlock, who inserted the drive.

There was only one folder on the USB. Sherlock opened it at once and gasped as he saw his brother's name in the title of at least half the documents. He skimmed through the first ten, growing increasingly tense.

”What’s all that? John asked, quickly despairing of catching anything but a fleeting glimpse before Sherlock moved on to the next page.

”Seems like Moriarty has not given up yet,” he said. ”Apparently Jenny Smith wasn't the only one who could tie my brother to the failed assassination of Bellinger.”

He got to his feet and began pacing.

John seized the chance to have a closer look at some of the documents Sherlock had left open on the laptop. It was a jumble of police reports, email exchanges and articles from different news sites.

Yet he didn't quite see the connection to Mycroft, other than the fact that his name was on the names of the documents. His eyes fell on one named ‘Let’s Play’, that Sherlock hadn't opened yet. He clicked on it and got a blank place with a single link at the top.

”Sherlock...” he called. ”I think you better come have a look at this.”

Sherlock hesitated but then clicked it. The browser opened onto a page that was completely black except for the red numbers in the middle, counting down.

“It seems…” Sherlock said hesitantly, “that we are working within a deadline of some kind…”

 

…

 

While John had something to eat, Sherlock got to work. Getting out all the extra laptops plus ‘borrowing’ Mrs Hudson’s while she was out, he studied and cross-referenced the many documents. After almost an hour of silence, he jumped to his feet.

“What is it?” John asked, rushing over. “Have you found out what he’s got on Mycroft now?”

“Not exactly,” Sherlock said, his eyes glistening as they moved from screen to screen. “But I know who does.”

John waited, but when it became obvious Sherlock wasn’t going to continue he sighed and asked: “Who?”

“Magnussen,” Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose in apparent disgust.

“Who?” John repeated, torn between feeling stupid and annoyed.

“Charles Augustus Magnussen,” Sherlock said, pointing to the corner on one of the articles. “Owner of every single one of the news sites these articles were published on.”

“C.A.M. Of course,” John said, glancing at the letters on the drive, expecting a rude interruption at any time. “So… Magnussen is the one who knows something about Mycroft’s involvement in the death of the Forrestals.” He glanced back at the articles. “But… This has got nothing to do with any of that. It’s just some… dirt… about people who are either working for or with the government.”

“As are most of the other stories,” Sherlock said. “That is how Magnussen works. Find out what people don’t want others to know and then either print it or use it to pressure them into giving him new information that is either worse or about someone more influential. He’s got his fingers in everyone and everything that is worth influencing in most of the Western world and probably beyond.”

“So how can we stop him from publishing the story about Mycroft?” John asked.

“I’m not sure that’s Magnussen’s plan,” Sherlock said. “Getting a hold on Mycroft will be worth much more to him than the sales a scandal would produce. My brother is, after all, more powerful than known. To the tabloid buying public, at least.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “As much as the thought repels me, Magnussen would probably not use such information for any real malice. At least not at this point in time. But if Moriarty gets his hands on concrete proof, we could be in very grave trouble. All of us.”

John nodded slowly. “What do you think he’s got planned when that timer reaches zero?”

Sherlock shook his head. “We cannot know yet,” he said. “Not before we know what he hopes to achieve by giving us all this information.”

He skimmed the documents again, then got up from his chair and threw himself on his back on the sofa. For a moment, John kept looking at the familiar frame of the incredibly long, perfect fingers steepled under Sherlock’s chin. The detective always made quite a sight when he was lying with his head thrown back like that. But then John quickly shook his head and went to find an occupation more useful than staring at his flatmate.

 

Hours later, Sherlock opened his eyes. “Tea…” he snapped, jumping to his feet, before adding a belated: “Please,” as he rushed to the computer.

John rolled his eyes and got up from his chair with a groan.

“Please be there…” Sherlock muttered as he began typing. “Please be there.” Then he cried out in triumph and leaned back in the chair. “Yes! Thank you, James…” he exclaimed.

John looked back from the kitchen, while still holding the two empty cups. He had thought that Sherlock had adapted to calling the criminal Moriarty, but now another ‘James’ had slipped through while Sherlock was caught up in his thought process. It both worried and bothered John. And Sherlock was actually _thanking_ Moriarty, while Mycroft’s career and probably all of their lives were at stake. Even Sherlock had to realise that this wasn’t the moment to admire the man who had abused and humiliated him. That, however clever he was being, that was _never_ appropriate. And certainly not while John was listening, knowing that he was the one who had to come to the rescue in the end. Who actually _cared_.

“What are you doing?” John asked, frowning.

“Mycroft’s files. The ones James got for me,” Sherlock said. “I need to check something.”

“Yeah, I got that much,” John said, rolling his eyes as he put down the cups. “ _What_?”

“The names. In the articles,” Sherlock explained. “I knew I’d seen them somewhere before. Together.” He pointed. “Here. Most of the record from this meeting has been scrambled, but look at the list of who was attending. Every single person Magnussen humiliated in those articles was there. And my brother. And… Oh…”

John gave him a questioning look.

"This one," Sherlock said, pointing at a name. "She's not in any of the articles." He frowned. "Lady Smallwood... What do we know about her...?" He leaned back and closed his eyes.

John shrugged. "The name vaguely rings a bell, but..."

"She's an mp. And heading some kind of inquiry at the moment. Mycroft worked with her last year," Sherlock said. "But why would Magnussen leave her alone? Surely there must have been dirt to dig up on her too."

"So Moriarty has something worse," John nodded.

Sherlock frowned. "Or... Magnussen _has_ something on her, but is using it to get... something on Mycroft!" He jumped to his feet. "And Moriarty wants in on it..."

"But he doesn't seem the type to work together with someone," John said. "He must have planned something. Maybe that's what the timer is about..."

"Who says they're working together...?" Sherlock opened the tab with the timer again. "This..." he said, clenching his hand into a fist, "must be the time Magnussen has given Lady Smallwood before he makes her secret public. Which means, that it is probably also the time Mycroft has left before Magnussen gets his hand on some kind of proof that he was behind the attempted assassination of Bellinger."

"So what do we do?” John asked. “If it's big enough to be a pressure point, Lady Smallwood won't let us convince her to just not tell Moriarty."

"We go to Magnussen," Sherlock said. "I don't think it will be in his interest to let Moriarty get his hands on the proof, whatever it is. They can't both pressure Mycroft with the same thing." He glanced at the timer. "We shouldn't waste any time. Let's go."

"But... What are we going to do?" John said, grabbing his jacket.

"Drop by Magnussen's office," Sherlock said. "I'm sure I can get us in. Somehow."

 

…

 

“Wow… Sherlock Holmes? I’ve heard about you. You’re that super-detective, right?”

John had to focus very hard on not rolling his eyes. The attractive, dark-haired girl in Magnussen’s front office could as well have thrown herself right at Sherlock without being any more obvious, but of course Sherlock didn’t even seem to notice that she was mentally taking off his clothes.

“Is Magnussen in?” the detective asked, flashing her one of his brilliant, but insincere, smiles.

She blinked for a moment before answering, apparently having arrived at his underwear just before he launched the question.

“Uhm… Yes…” she said, glancing at the screen. “He is, after all, expecting you, Mr Holmes.”

“Oh…” Sherlock frowned and then walked around her desk to look at the screen. His smile stiffened. “Yes. Of course.”

John gave Sherlock a confused look, but then smiled at the girl. “Can we just go right in?” he asked.

She nodded, not taking her eyes off Sherlock. “Sure… Go right ahead.”

John followed his friend, trying to shake the annoyance at the girl. She reminded him a little of James, with the Irish lilt in her speech and the way she hardly acknowledged him while Sherlock was around.

But as soon as Sherlock opened the door, all thoughts of that were gone.

Charles Augustus Magnussen was kneeling in the middle of his office, his hands folded behind his head. And before him, near the window, stood Sebastian Moran with a gun aimed at Magnussen’s head.


	26. Chapter 26

Sherlock tensed when he saw Moran. Memories of pain, humiliation and worst of all helplessness flooded through him. He shook his head. This was insane. He’d moved past this. Before he’d even returned to London, he’d processed his captivity, torture and rape and then packed it away as unimportant. He had not thought of it once in the months that had passed.

But here he was. Just a glimpse of that man and he only barely kept himself from trembling. He took a deep breath and only then realised that he had reached out and grasped John’s shoulder, squeezing it rather hard. He let go quickly. At least it hadn’t been the one with the old wound.

“So…” he said, pleased that he managed to sound completely calm and unaffected. “Did Moriarty summon us here just to witness an execution? Seems like a lot of fuss for such a small thing.”

"Shut it," Moran said, pointing the gun at Sherlock instead. "And Watson, I suggest you put that down before my fingers get itchy."

John put his Browning on the floor and Moran picked it up, not taking his eyes off Sherlock. "You two had almost missed your ride," he commented.

"Oh," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. "So we're going on a trip? How nice." He folded his hands behind his back, trying not to think of the last trip he'd gone on.

"Yeah," Moran said. "The boss will be so pleased to see you again." He kicked at Magnussen. "Up."

Magnussen kept his eyes down as he got to his feet, still holding his hands behind his head. The man, so powerful when ruining lives with a few words, was apparently quite a coward when facing a threat of violence. Sherlock huffed and then followed him out of his office.

The assistant jumped to her feet with a frightened gasp when she saw them and reached for the phone. "What... What's going on, Sir?" she stammered while dialling.

"Put the phone down," Moran snarled, waving the gun at her.

She squeaked and dropped the phone immediately. "Don't..." she gasped. "Don't kill me. Please..."

Sherlock glanced at Moran. Sure enough, his usual grin was in place as he enjoyed the woman's terror.

Moran stepped forward to check that no connection had been made on the phone, then nodded. "Just be a sweetheart and open the lift for us, will you?" he said.

The small lift could barely hold them all, but Moran still pushed the woman in before signalling for the others to join her. No one spoke on the way down, though it sounded like Magnussen's assistant might be crying. But she had her back to Sherlock and wasn't moving, so he couldn't be sure.

He looked over at John, whose gaze was fixed on his own gun in Moran's pocket, but there was no way they could reach it without anyone getting hurt. Sherlock let out a soft huff and when John looked over at him, he held his eyes and shook his head. Trying to take on Moran while the man was armed was far too dangerous. Besides, they might as well let him lead for now, until they'd had a chance to figure out what all this was about.

  
  


After what felt like a long time, the lift finally came to a halt and the doors opened to the grim light of a garage. "Out," Moran ordered the three other men, but he held the girl back.

"You haven't seen anything," he said in her ear, obviously just for the sake of intimidating her as the words were clearly audible to the others. "And if you call the police, my boss  _ will _ find you and your family." He pushed her away so her back hit the wall of the lift, and then pressed a button before he came out.

"You'll drive," he told Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded and walked over to Moran's car. He managed a crooked smile when he thought how unlikely Moran would have been to let him drive it back when they were supposedly together. Things sure had changed.

"Appledore?" he asked, as he got behind the wheel.

“Apple-what?” John asked, sounding confused.

“Appledore,” Sherlock repeated. “Magnussen’s house. And the place where he keeps all that delicious dirt he’s been digging up over the last couple of decades. Rumour has it that the contents of the vaults beneath that house could make a ruthless man ruler of the entire world.”

"Shut up and sit down,” Moran interrupted him. Then he turned to Magnussen. "You sit next to our driver. Watson, in the back with me, so I can keep an eye on you and you have a good view as I blow a bullet through your boyfriend's brain as soon as you try anything funny."

John glared at him, but fortunately saw that he couldn't really do much except for taking his place in the car.

For some reason, Sherlock felt his cheeks burning as he got in behind the wheel. He supposed it must be because of the anger he was still feeling towards Moran. 

  
  


…

  
  


Except for the directions Moran sometimes gave, the hours of driving passed in silence. This suited Sherlock well, as it gave him plenty of opportunity to consider the situation. He would have preferred to meet Moriarty without having Moran at his back. He supposed they  _ were _ meeting Moriarty at Appledore. Otherwise none of this made any sense.

Not that it made a lot of sense anyway. Moriarty clearly wanted them at Magnussen’s house. Along with Magnussen. But why? What did he need Sherlock for? Just to let him witness when he, despite all of Sherlock’s efforts, finally got the thing that would help him take down Mycroft? Or did he expect Sherlock to help him in some way?

He needed more data if he were to make any conclusions. But there wasn’t much he could do at the moment. His one attempt at speaking to Magnussen had resulted in Moran pointing one of the guns at John, and Sherlock, figuring that John was probably the person in the car Moriarty had least use for, had not tried again.

“Turn right here,” Moran said finally, and Magnussen let out a sigh.

Sherlock turned up the narrow road and smiled as he saw Appledore coming into view. It was an odd sort of house. Very much like the man who inhabited it.

As he stopped the car by the wide steps leading up to the front door, Moriarty came out to greet them. Moran ordered them all out of the car and then, keeping one gun aimed at John, walked up the steps to give his boss a quick kiss.

Moriarty smiled up at him and then addressed the others. “Welcome to Appledore,” he said, throwing his arms out in an extravagant gesture. “Or in your case,” he grinned at Magnussen, “welcome home.”

The tall, solemn man glared at him and then walked past the two criminals into his house. Sherlock caught John’s eyes, shrugged and then followed. If Magnussen wasn’t going to let Moriarty and Moran intimidate him, neither would Sherlock.

Magnussen walked into what Sherlock supposed was his living room, and sat down on the long white sofa, looking up at his uninvited visitors.

“So, Mr Moriarty,” he said, calmly. “What can I do for you?”

Moriarty sat down next to him, crossing his legs and leaning back with a tired groan. “You know what I want,” he said, closing his eyes. “I need a peak inside those vaults of yours. Nothing big, just a few  _ tiny _ pieces of information, needed to take down the most dangerous man in Britain.”

“I would have thought that was you, Mr Moriarty,” Magnussen said, taking off his glasses and putting them on the low table. “But since I do not suppose that you are aiming to take yourself down, I’m going to guess,” he paused and looked directly at Sherlock, “you are referring to someone working for the government. Someone involved in things they shouldn’t be.”

Sherlock barely bit back a huff. Why did the man have to talk so infuriatingly slow? English might not be his first language, but he clearly mastered it better than most natives. So why all those pauses? It was as if he was savouring each word, like a rare expensive delicacy. Or maybe just really enjoying hearing himself speak.

Moriarty nodded. “Of course,” he said. “And you know I always get what I want in the end, so how about making this less unpleasant for all of us, and letting me into your vaults?”

Magnussen seemed to consider his words for a long moment. Then he nodded towards Sherlock and John. “And what, exactly, are the addict and his friend doing here?”

Sherlock seethed but refrained from making any kind of remark.

“Bad place at a bad time,” Moran grinned.

John raised an eyebrow.

“I see,” Magnussen said. “So you want me to believe that them showing up at that exact time was just a coincidence. Please, Colonel, with two notable exceptions, none of us here are idiots.”

“They are here to help,” Moriarty said. “Should it become necessary. But… Let’s not go there.”

Magnussen cocked his head, clearly contemplating the ways in which Sherlock or John could ‘help’ in this situation. A small smile played on his lips as he returned his attention to Moriarty.

“But that is the very problem, Mr Moriarty,” he said. “Going there.”

Moriarty frowned for a moment, then made a small hand gesture.

Moran turned and pointed his gun at Magnussen. “Time to show us the way…” 

“ But I can’t, silly man,” Magnussen said. “That is the one thing your boss cannot seem to grasp. The vaults are one of the few places that will be forever locked, even to him.”

“You know the only alternative to talking is a bullet in your brain, right?” Moran said, rolling his eyes.

“But then your boss will never get the information that is so important to him. Don’t you understand?” Magnussen studied Moran for a moment, then smiled. “Of course you don’t.”

Something clicked inside Sherlock and he gasped.

Magnussen turned to him, staring more intently than he had before. “I see… the detective has worked it out. Who would have thought.” He glanced at Moriarty. “He actually  _ is _ smarter than you.”

“Right.” Moriarty looked like he might literally start fuming any moment. He made another gesture and Moran raised his weapon.

John jumped to throw Moran to the side, but the deafening shot had already rung and Magnussen fell to the ground, while John struggled to get a grip on Moran’s gun. In the end, Moran managed to hit John’s temple with the back of the weapon, sending him to the ground, looking a little dazed.

As Moran fixed the gun on him, he stopped his attempt to crawl to Magnussen.

“Don’t,” Sherlock said, trying to catch John’s eyes. “There’s nothing you can do for him anyway.”

Then he looked up at Moriarty. “Bravo,” he said, calmly, studying the change that happened in the criminal’s eyes as he studied the body on the ground. “He wasn’t lying. Now you’ll never get any information from him. It’s all gone. All of Appledore. Erased.”

Moriarty glared at him. “What?” he roared. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock suppressed an irrational urge to laugh. He tapped his own temple. “Mind palace, my dear James. It was all inside his head.”

“ You’re lying,” Moran said. “You can still find it for your  _ dear James _ .”

“How?” Sherlock asked. “Do you have a ouija board? Do you want to do a séance?”

Moriarty looked from Sherlock down to Magnussen then back. His shoulders seemed to slump. “He’s right,” he muttered. “The damn doofus is right.” He spun around and then screamed with fury.

“But… There was so much,” Moran said, confused, but still training his gun on John. “No one can hold that much information just in their heads. And he had letters and all of that stuff. That must be somewhere…”

“Oh, I’m sure there is a safe around here somewhere, containing a few items,” Moriarty said, once again sounding quite calm. “Just a few things to show off, to let people know that he is not bluffing. But all the data. The details and the… pressure points. They were all in there.” He pointed at Magnussen’s head. “And now they’re there…” he gestured at the blood-and-brains covered wall. Then he began giggling.

John sat looking at him in disgust.

“So what do we do now, boss?” Moran asked, after having given Moriarty a moment to laugh.

Moriarty took a deep breath. “Sherlock, my dear,” he said, cocking his head slightly, as if listening. “Would you do our friend Sebastian a favour?”

Sherlock felt lost for a moment. What was this about?

“Uhm… depends on what it is…” he managed to say, his mind racing, trying to catch up with what Moriarty was up to now.

“Hold his gun, please. Just for a moment.”

Moran frowned. “Jim… Are you sure?”

“Of course I am,” Moriarty snapped. “Do you think I’d joke at a time like this?” He looked over his shoulder, out the large windows, that seemed to take up the entire outer wall of the house.

Now Sherlock heard the sound. Faint but unmistakably the thudding of an approaching helicopter. Moran must have heard it too because he whirled around, grabbed Sherlock’s arm and pressed the gun into his hand. Then he grabbed his boss by the wrist and the two men ran, disappearing further into the large house.

Sherlock didn’t even have time to consider whether or not to pursue them when he was blinded by a too-bright search light shining through the windows, and he heard his brother’s voice, magnified and distorted:

“ Sherlock Holmes. Drop the weapon and step away from that body. I repeat, drop the weapon and step away from that body.”


	27. Chapter 27

Once Sebastian was sure Jim was seated behind him, he made as much speed as he could, hoping that the elder Holmes’ men wouldn’t come after the motorcycle’s noise right away. The helicopters would probably drown out the sound, and they should be low enough that no one could see them drive behind the house until they were quite a while away.

“Hands off,” Sebastian growled as Jim’s fingers crept down to touch his cock. “I need to focus.”

Jim’s hand returned to his stomach to hold on, but Sebastian could almost feel his boss’s pout radiating from him as he shifted behind him.

After about a mile, they reached the car. Thanks to the cover of the trees, it was highly unlikely that anyone would see them stop from Appledore, but still they needed to be quick. Jim had started humping Sebastian’s back slowly, and there really wasn’t any time for that.

“Get in the car,” Sebastian snarled, getting up and not waiting for Jim as he got behind the wheel.

Jim jumped in next to him and immediately reached for his crotch. “That was… fun…” he said, grinning.

“ _Off_ ,” Sebastian said. “I need to drive.” He put the car in gear, not even waiting for Jim to close the door properly.

“But I want you,” Jim whined. “On the hood of the car. Now…”

Sebastian sighed. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Jim, but god, the man’s timing… “You can have me in the hotel. Later,” he responded, stepping hard on the throttle.

Jim crossed his arms, pouting. “Boring,” he huffed.

 

…

 

“Key for room 13 please. What…” Sebastian hadn’t really been paying attention to Jim, set on getting their key as soon as possible, and suddenly he was turned and pushed against the hotel desk with a criminal mastermind gnawing at his neck.

“Kit-ten…” he groaned, trying to push him back.

“What the hell?” the clerk gasped, taking a step back.

“We… are… at… the… hotel,” Jim panted between bites and licks, while his hands made very quick work of the button and zipper on Sebastian’s jeans. “Want you… now…”

“I meant in our room…” Sebastian said between his teeth, but he couldn’t help bucking his hips towards Jim’s hand. “Oh, god…” He leaned back against the desk.

“You should have said s…” Jim began, but the last word was cut off as he was pulled away from Sebastian by the collar of his jacket.

“Out!” the clerk screamed at them, while the large doorman propelled Jim towards the door.

“Oh, fuck off,” Sebastian told them, shaking himself loose as the doorman wanted to push him too. Barely holding up his trousers, he caught up with Jim and turned to him, grabbed his arse and lifted him to kiss him hungrily in the middle of the entrance.

At another outraged cry from the lobby, Jim giggled, pushed away from Sebastian and took him by the wrist, pulling him outside. They quickly made their way into the alley where they had left the car and before Sebastian could even begin to look for his keys, Jim had him bent over the hood, pulling his jeans down.

Sebastian groaned and struggled a little, but without putting much force in it. “Always your way,” he muttered, turning his head to kiss Jim.

“Of course,” Jim said, pushing his own trousers down. “What did you expect?”

“I guess a tamed Kitten wouldn’t be as interesting,” Sebastian shrugged. “Now hurry up and fuck me.”

“Always, Tiger,” Jim said, pushing in roughly. “Always.”

 

…

 

Although they hadn’t booked beforehand, the clerk in the next hotel was a lot friendlier. It might of course have had something to do with a happy, pliant Kitten on Sebastian’s arm behaving very well until the hotel room door was locked behind them.

Jim was practically wrapped around Sebastian by then, nuzzling his neck and making that purring sound that made Sebastian want to bite him and fuck him hard.

“Such a good Kitten,” he growled, wrapping his arms around Jim until he was leaning against him. Then he lifted Jim and threw him on the bed. “My turn,” he stated, stalking towards his prey.

Jim squeaked and somehow managed to bounce enough to end up on his hands and knees, facing Sebastian. “Come and get me,” he said, his eyes sparkling in anticipation. Then he snarled, baring his teeth.

Sebastian jumped at him, pushing him over onto his back, and immediately reaching to pull his shirt out of his trousers while biting down on his neck. “Mine.”

Jim squirmed and struggled, trying to push him off. “Bloody hell, I’m not…” he protested. “You’re _mine_ …”

Sebastian pinned Jim’s arms so he couldn’t move, biting harder. “My Kitten…”

Jim purred again. “My…” But the next word turned into an ‘umphh’ as Sebastian rested his full weight down on him and rocked his hips.

Chuckling, Sebastian eased up a little. “Too heavy, Kitten?” he teased.

Immediately Jim had his hands around Sebastian’s neck and was squirming free.

“Oi,” Sebastian managed hoarsely, whacking his arm against Jim’s stomach to make him fall back again.

Jim whimpered and then went completely limp, while trying to catch his breath.

Sebastian loomed over him, putting his hands on both sides of Jim’s head. “Already giving up?” he asked, leaning down for a short kiss.

“What are the odds of me getting out of this?” Jim asked, grinning up at him.

Sebastian scrunched up his face, acting like he had to think for a moment. “Slim to none,” he concluded slowly, “but a fight’s always fun.”

“True,” Jim said, making a grab for Sebastian’s hair.

Sebastian batted his hand away and then leaned to the right, opening Jim’s trousers with one hand. “Fighting naked is more fun,” he grinned.

Jim nodded and then grabbed two handfuls of Sebastian’s t-shirt and begun tearing it apart.

“Oi,” Sebastian said, pulling away from him.

“What?” Jim asked, blinking innocently. “Didn’t you want to get naked?”

“Yeah, but I thought you liked this shirt. You’ll have to pay me a new one, boss.” He grabbed Jim’s shirt and pulled hard, so buttons jumped off.

Jim laughed and then used the remains of Sebastian’s shirt to wrap around his neck.

“No...” Sebastian said, rolling his eyes and slapping Jim with his left hand. He grabbed his Kitten’s hands and forced them above his head, then tied them to the board with what was left of the t-shirt. “Much better.”

Jim lay completely still for a moment, smiling sweetly. Then suddenly he twisted his body, raised both legs and kicked Sebastian hard.

Even though he had more or less expected something like that, Sebastian gasped and grabbed Jim’s legs, pushing them too far back. “Want me to tie these up too?”

Jim giggled and nodded eagerly.

Sebastian sighed. “You’re a piece of work. Behave for a second, will you? I need your trousers to restrain them, and if you kick me in the balls this is all over.”

He let go of Jim’s legs, and then quickly pulled off his trousers and pants.

Jim did not move but just watched him, giggling breathlessly.

Sebastian folded Jim’s legs back again, far enough that he had to lift his arse from the mattress, and tied his feet to either side of his hands. “There. All spread open for me. I hope you’re not too comfortable.”

“Very uncomfortable, Tiger, “Jim said happily.

“Good.” Sebastian stepped off the bed and admired his work for a moment, before calmly undressing and then rummaging through their bag for lube, taking his time.

Then, finally, he loomed over Jim again. “You look gorgeous like this. I should have you like that all the time.”

“Fine by me,” Jim said. “But then you’d have to do all the work. Don’t you think you’d get bored?”

“Maybe… Let’s try it.” Sebastian grinned and licked a line between the cheeks of Jim’s arse before looking up at him again.

Jim moaned and closed his eyes. “Good start,” he said, smiling.

“Shut up,” Sebastian said, slapping his left cheek, and then bending to bite the other while teasing his hole with his fingers.

“Never… Tiger…” Jim purred.

Sebastian gave himself a few quick strokes and then positioned himself in front of Jim, glaring down at him. “You’re going to pay if you disobey me…”

“Pay?” Jim asked. “How?”

“Like this.” Sebastian thrust hard into him and groaned.

Jim cried out and then laughed. “Then I better disobey… a lot…”

Sebastian repeated the movement, while pressing his nails hard into both his thighs and scratching.

 

…

 

“Are you just going to leave me like this?” Jim huffed, once he had caught his breath.

Sebastian hummed and opened one eye. He had flopped down on his back next to Jim and had drifted off immediately, but now the nagging was keeping him from sleeping properly. “Told you to shut up,” he mumbled.

“But Tiger…” Jim whined. “I’m sticky and my back is beginning to hurt.”

“Hmm. Okay,” Sebastian said, closing his eyes again.

“Not okay. Untie me!” Jim demanded.

“But you’re pretty like this,” Sebastian muttered. “You agreed I could keep you.”

“If you don’t untie me right now, I am going to skin you when I get out of this. And I don’t mean the fun way.”

Sebastian groaned. “You never mean the fun way. I should just leave you here to rot.”

“But you know you can’t really do that. And the longer you leave me here, the worse it’s going to get. So how about untying me while I’m still in a good mood from being thoroughly shagged?”

Letting out a long-suffering sigh, Sebastian propped himself up on his elbows. “Alright, alright… I can’t even take a nap…” He got up, walking around the bed to admire the mess on Jim’s stomach and chest, and stopped on the other side to kiss his lips. Then, finally, he untied the clothes and sat down next to Jim, smiling down at him.

Jim groaned as he lowered his legs. “Fun to do…” he muttered. “Not so much fun afterwards…” He arched his back, making it crack in several places. Then he smiled up at Sebastian and pointed to the mess. “Are you going to clean me up or not?”

“Nah…” Sebastian shrugged. “It suits you so well.”

Jim huffed and sat up. “Then I guess I have to go shower instead of holding you,” he said and then stood up with another groan.

“Can’t we just have a nap?” Sebastian asked, trying not to pout.

“Not while this is drying on my skin,” Jim said, gesturing to the mess. “Don’t wait up for me.” He turned and stalked off to the bathroom.

“Ugh,” Sebastian said, lying down across the bed and throwing an arm over his eyes.

 

…

 

He woke up when Jim returned from his shower. Cracking his neck as he sat up, he looked over at him. “Now what’s the next step?” he asked.

“We wait,” Jim said, sitting down on the bed and yawning.

“Shouldn’t we wait a bit further away from where it happened?” Sebastian said. “Sherlock’s big brother will want to find the bad men who discredited him…”

“Holmes will have far too much to worry about to be looking for us, just yet,” Jim said, lying down with a deep sigh.

Sebastian nodded slowly and turned towards him. “And where do we go next?”

“Wherever he sends his baby brother, of course,” Jim said, giving him one of those looks, like he sometimes wondered how anyone could possibly be that slow.

“Oh, so you haven’t figured out yet where that will be? Disappointing,” Sebastian said, shrugging.

Jim hesitated for a moment, then picked up his pillow and tossed it at Sebastian’s head as hard as he could, before laying down, his back to Sebastian, and pulled the cover up to his ear.

Sebastian chuckled. “My turn for a shower then, I guess. Sleep tight, Kitten.” Just to annoy him, he leaned over to kiss the sulky ball’s hair and then quickly got up.


	28. Chapter 28

John put the newspaper down with a sigh. “They really believe all that crap. That chief inspector you managed to insult - well, one of them - seemed eager enough to talk to the press about you. No wonder Mycroft couldn’t stop this from getting published.”

“He didn’t even try,” Sherlock said, not looking up from his book. “It’ll be easier to let Moriarty have this one victory than fight him on it.”

“But… Your reputation…” John said, shaking his head. “And surely it must hurt Mycroft’s position too. Having his brother known as a murderer while he is running the country…”

“Considering how many people were being ‘pressured’ by Magnussen, it may look bad on the surface, but secretly they’re all applauding and patting his back. Just see what happened to Lady Smallwood and her family because she did not comply,” Sherlock said.

John frowned and nodded. Unfortunately, Magnussen’s death hadn’t stopped the scandal from being published. It was not even clear whether Lady Smallwood would have shared her information on Mycroft with Magnussen or not, but apparently Mycroft trusted her enough to provide her protection now. Still, it had been too late for her husband. The news of his suicide had only increased the popularity of the story of his old affair.

Mycroft’s position, on the other hand, seemed safe for now. But as the newspaper the day before had informed them that Sir Bellinger had not survived his injuries after the explosion, he could actually be named a serial killer if Moriarty sold his information the right way. If one day he could get to Lady Smallwood, or another source offered him actual proof...

Sherlock huffed and tossed the book on analytical chemistry across the room. “I read this thing when I was nine. Why didn’t we bring anything to actually do here?”

“Because we were in a hurry,” John said, rolling his eyes. “Better to be here than somewhere in a prison where Moriarty could probably have you killed with a snap of his fingers. I may not like to admit it, but Mycroft was right to send us here.”

He waved around at the small cottage’s living room, which was at least comfortable, and more importantly, remote.

“He could have put us somewhere with wifi,” Sherlock complained. “Or a remote chance of getting any kind of signal on my phone…”

“Would make it possible to track us,” John shrugged. “We’ve been over this about fifteen times. Just read something. Or start making dinner if you want to be useful.”

Sherlock shot a distasteful glance in the direction of the tiny kitchen. “You mean heating the powdered soup?” he asked, then turned over on the sofa, so his back was to John. “You do that.”

“Fine. Then perhaps it will end up edible,” John said, getting up. “You just go ahead and sulk. After all you’re such a delight to be locked up with that way.”

“I guess we can’t all be absolutely delightful all the time,” Sherlock muttered.

John rolled his eyes again and went to the kitchen. It was only to be expected that Sherlock would grow bored very quickly on an island that was specifically chosen for the fact that absolutely nothing happened there. He just wished Sherlock wouldn’t drive _him_ crazy too.

At least it was easy enough to make him eat now. With nothing else to do, Sherlock was happy enough to take that distraction. In fact, he was eating his soup ridiculously slowly, his heart-shaped lips catching around the spoon time after time. John caught himself staring and quickly looked away. Clearly the boredom was getting to him as well, be it in a different manner. If even the curve of Sherlock’s lips could hold him captivated… Not that it was the first time it had caught his attention, but it wasn’t exactly John’s intention to make his friend feel uncomfortable by watching him so closely.

Suddenly he realised that Sherlock was staring back. Catching John’s eyes, he smiled. “Very fascinating, isn’t it?” he asked.

John blinked. “What?”

Sherlock licked his lips slowly, then spoke again: “You tell me.”

John’s mouth fell open. Was Sherlock… It was almost like… “Is this an experiment?” he asked, his voice sounding slightly higher than it was supposed to.

“What?” Sherlock asked. “Eating? Granted, I don’t do it that often, but I do know what to expect from it.”

“So… You were saying that eating was fascinating?” John said, frowning and feeling very confused.

Sherlock chuckled and shook his head, then focused back on his soup.

“Right…” John said, feeling very confused and fiddling with his spoon before he looked back up at Sherlock. He must have imagined it. Surely Sherlock wouldn’t have meant anything by licking his lips like that. And he was only twiddling his spoon around his long, pale fingers because he was bored, not to show John his hands from all angles. Because why would he do that? It was just like when they had been chatting on Skype after John had had tough days and was reading too much in the fun they had together. Apparently the same kind of wishful thinking was deluding him now he was so bored. It was foolish to believe Sherlock was even aware of its effects.

“I wish I could go out for a walk,” John mumbled.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes,” he said. “But we have to wait a day or two. Until Mycroft’s men have covered the whole island. And put up enough surveillance that he’ll know if a squirrel clears its throat.”

John chuckled, glad to be distracted by Sherlock’s talking. “You never know if Moriarty hasn’t strapped some bombs to those squirrels, after all.”

“Right…” Sherlock snorted. “That sounds like something he would come up with. And then have them masquerade as rabbits.”

“I’m not sure I’d be more likely to trust a rabbit than a squirrel. He should go for a bird disguise instead, I think,” John mused.

“But a flightless fuzzy bird would look very suspicious around here,” Sherlock said. “Rabbits are much more common. And deer. But I doubt he can make a squirrel look like a deer… Maybe a group of very acrobatic squirrels…”

John couldn’t help giggling. “But rabbits don’t jump from tree to tree! I’d still vote for the bird plan. Fuzzy or not.” He grinned at Sherlock. “We’ll be completely mad in two days, won’t we?”

“Probably,” Sherlock said, chuckling as he put down his bowl and reached for his book again, only to toss it aside 30 seconds later. “It’s still stupid,” he declared, and then got up and began pacing.

John sighed, wishing he could think of something to keep Sherlock out of a foul mood. “You know,” he said, “if there _is_ some experiment I can help you with… As long as it doesn’t make the cottage explode without the help of squirrels, that is…”

“I don’t have any of my things,” Sherlock whined. “How can I do any kind of work without my things?”

John shrugged. “There’s some stuff in the kitchen you could use. You never know if it’ll come in handy in a case if you have experimented to bake a cake without all the ingredients. Or something.”

“Make a cake?” Sherlock studied him in a way that suggested he might really be questioning his sanity.

“I’m just trying to help, you know,” John said, rolling his eyes.

“Well, you’re not,” Sherlock snapped. “Just… Just leave me alone…”

John’s patience had been stretched to its limits and he stood up sharply. “Fine. You do realise that I don’t have to be here, right? That I’m just here to keep you company while _you_ have to hide. Great way to show your appreciation, really. Well done.”

“Right… Do you really believe that?” Sherlock countered, glaring at him. “Do you really think that after your intervention in Mexico, they’re not after you too? Or that Moriarty would hesitate in using you to lure me out?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would he think you’d even bother to come after me? After all I’m no _real_ help to you, you’ve made that clear enough.” John glared back, chewing on his lips to avoid taking out his anger. Not that it wouldn’t be good to get rid of all that pent-up energy and frustration in a fight. And that way he could actually make it clear to Sherlock that he had had enough of being taken for granted all the time...

Sherlock, who had been about to say something that would probably have been both clever and cruel, froze and just stared at John for a moment before remembering to close his mouth. He swallowed hard. “I… I didn’t say that…” he muttered and turned away.

John raised his eyebrows. “You actually did.”

“I didn’t mean it like _that,_ ” Sherlock said, walking over to the sofa and flopping down.

“Well, sometimes it’s hard to know.” John crossed his arms and looked down on him.

Sherlock muttered something and shrugged.

“What did you say?” John asked, slightly intrigued as he thought to have recognised an apology.

Sherlock neither spoke nor moved again.

John sighed and sat down in the chair nearest to the sofa. “So you would,” he said eventually. “Come after me like I came after you.”

“Of course I would,” Sherlock muttered.

John smiled a little. The part of him that hadn’t been caught up in his anger actually knew that, of course. But it was nice to hear it for once. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Sherlock said, turning over onto his back and flashing John a brief, small smile.

“So we should probably not undo all that by killing each other in here.” John chuckled. “Maybe I should have a look if the drinks cabinet is filled. Or if there’s a pack of cards or something. I know neither option is intellectually challenging, but it’s better than shouting, right?”

“It is?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

“To me, at least,” John shrugged.

 

…

 

An hour later, John was refilling their glasses with brandy and almost shocked about how little Sherlock had complained about the simple card game they were playing. Apparently he had never played it before, but even then John doubted it was a real challenge, and rather suspected that it was their argument that had made Sherlock grow a little more quiet. That, or the alcohol.

Sherlock frowned at his cards and then put them down on the table, face up. "Does this mean I've won?" he asked.

John scratched his hair, startled from his thoughts. "Oh. I didn't see that coming," he admitted, glancing at the cards.

Sherlock shrugged. "What now?" he asked.

John was still looking at the cards, trying to make sense of what Sherlock had done, but he didn't see anything that was against the rules. "Do you want to play again?" he asked, looking up.

"Sure. If you like," Sherlock said, pushing the cards towards John.

John smiled and started dealing them again. He hadn't really expected Sherlock to agree, but apparently he didn't have any better ideas to chase the boredom away. Still, it was slightly worrying how calm he was. Was he just avoiding another outburst from John? Or had it brought back the memories to everything Moriarty and Moran had done to Sherlock, now, while there was nothing to distract him from them? John bit his lip, suddenly feeling bad for what he had said. He wanted to ask Sherlock if he was alright, if he wanted to talk, but he knew it wouldn't do much good. He didn't want Sherlock to lock himself up in the bedroom, where he would have to cope with it all on his own. It would be better to distract him, even if it was with this silly game.

"Looks like I won again," Sherlock said after only a couple of minutes. "Are you sure you shuffled the cards?"

"You _saw_ me do it. Stop showing off," John told him, gathering the cards again. But as clever as Sherlock was, it _was_ rather striking that he had won with exactly the same combination of cards as in the previous game. And he wondered what had happened to the card on top, which looked dirtier than it had done earlier, although the table was clean.

He looked up at Sherlock and raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock mimicked John's expression. "Something wrong?" he asked.

"That card didn't look like this," John said calmly.

"Like what?" Sherlock asked, smiling and blinking.

"Like I have a dirty cheater sitting across from me!" John said, throwing the cards on the table.

Sherlock picked up the card in question and examined it. He looked up at John again and, slowly licked his lips before asking: "Why do you think that?" He held up the card, which now looked like it had when they started the game.

John's eyes had only been on Sherlock's lips for half a second before he realised he should have kept an eye on his hands, but clearly it had been enough. "Show me your sleeves."

As Sherlock raised his other hand, his arm did a funny kind of jiggle. Sherlock grinned at him. "Come on, John," he said. "You've read too many old comic books."

"And you've just shaken the card further down," John said, getting up and walking around the table to Sherlock. "Give it to me."

Sherlock got to his feet and took a step away, keeping his eyes on John. "No, I didn't," he said, still smiling. "I only have this card." He held the clean one out to him.

"Liar!" John said, trying to hold back his laughter as he grabbed Sherlock's arm.

"Don't call me that," Sherlock said, giggling as he tried to evade him.

"Why not? It's the truth!" John said, taking a step closer again.

Suddenly Sherlock turned and bolted, rushing around the small table and running for the door to the bedroom.

"Oh no, you don't!" John said, running after him and then more or less tackling him so he ended up pressed against the wall next to the door.

Sherlock tried to push John away, twisting around so he ended up with his back against the wall. Then he had to give up fighting as he was overcome with laughter.

John was also lost in giggles as he opened the button of Sherlock's sleeve and rolled it up, finally finding the card. "Ha! Caught you!" He looked up at Sherlock, failing to look stern.

Sherlock almost managed to keep a straight face. "How did that get there?" he asked innocently.

John poked him between his ribs. "Liar!"

"Okay," Sherlock admitted. "But I'm good at it, right? If I'd had a newer deck, you'd never have figured it out."

John snorted. "You had the exact same combination of cards. I'm not sure you could have been any more obvious."

"Because I only had that one extra card," Sherlock said, shrugging. "Point is, you never saw me switch the cards."

John rolled his eyes. "No wonder you wanted to play again." Suddenly he realised that he was still holding Sherlock in place against the wall.

"I needed the practice. You offered to help," Sherlock said, still looking down at him.

John shook his head, smiling and letting go of Sherlock's arms. "I guess I did. Just what you needed. Practice at cheating."

Sherlock smiled and nodded. "Yes," he said. "Thank you. You were very helpful." He chuckled.

John shook his head again and licked his lips. He suddenly realised that Sherlock was very, very close. He should probably give him some space. And stop staring at his mouth.

Sherlock looked down at him, squinting just a little as he stopped laughing.  

John tilted his head a little, questioning, as for a moment Sherlock was frowning as if he only really saw John for the first time. His nose even wrinkled a little, John could see as he licked his lips again, stretching to have a better view, but then it was as if Sherlock had figured out the mystery and his face relaxed.

"John?" he said, hesitantly.

John blinked and realised that somehow there was less than an inch of space between their lips. "I'm sorry," he said, quickly pulling back. "I shouldn't have... Sorry." He turned his gaze to the floor, blushing.

"Shouldn't have?" Sherlock asked, sounding slightly breathless. "Shouldn't have what?"

John shook his head. "This," he muttered, waving between them. "I wasn't thinking."

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "I... I don't understand," he said. Then his eyebrows rose. "Oh..."

"It won't happen again," John said quickly. "I know you don't... I should probably go to bed."

Sherlock just nodded, still looking puzzled.

John hesitated, wondering if he should say something more. He probably really had gone too far now. But there wasn't much more he could do, except for apologising. And Sherlock probably wouldn't want him around any longer.

"You can have the bedroom," he said. "I'll take the sofa tonight." The past few nights Sherlock had stayed on the sofa anyway, but he really couldn't ask him to take the uncomfortable option now.

Sherlock shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm fine on the sofa. Really." He turned away abruptly and walked to the kitchen. "I... I'm not tired yet. I'll have some tea and read, I think." He got the kettle and began filling it.

"Okay," John nodded. "If there's anything I can do... But I guess I've done more than enough." He bit his lip and disappeared into the bedroom.


	29. Chapter 29

Sherlock leaned on the counter, watching the kettle. Not that it really did anything other than make the occasional fizzy or bubbly noise. But there really wasn’t anything else to do in this place. His brother had actually managed to put him in limbo, with no hope of salvation any time soon. If only he could have brought his laptop. Or a phone. Anything through which he could get new information. New distractions.

He didn’t even have a case to solve. No puzzle to work out. He could do nothing but hide. Hide and try not to go insane.

At least John was here. For the first time in his life he had someone. A friend. Companion. Someone who would stick with him through it all. Hell, John had even travelled half way around the world because his instincts had told him Sherlock might be in trouble. And he had been so right.

It was a strange feeling. To have someone care for you like that.

Of course, Mycroft had always looked out for him. Gotten him out of trouble. But that was obviously more to save his own skin than out of any actual concern for his younger brother. He could not afford the scandal of letting Sherlock come to harm in any way that might become public knowledge. And it was always so… cold. Sending his men or one of his infuriatingly superior assistants. Or just making a phone call.

But not John. John had come rushing in. Literally. John had gone up against both Moran and Moriarty and he had saved Sherlock’s life. If it had been left up to Mycroft and his minions, Sherlock would not have left that hotel room alive.

And now this… John didn’t really have to come along to this place. True, there was a risk that Moriarty would come after him either for revenge or to use him against Sherlock. But he could have gone into hiding on his own. He was a soldier. He could take care of himself. But he had chosen to stick with Sherlock. And though he would probably never be able to tell him, Sherlock would be eternally grateful.

He’d even offered to let Sherlock have the bed. That was so… selfless. So typically John. Sherlock would never understand even half the things he did. Like the funny looks he gave him sometimes. Almost like Sherlock looked at a crime scene. So intently. Like he was taking in every single detail. He wondered what John saw at those moments. What did he read in Sherlock’s face that was so important? He almost seemed surprised sometimes. As if he couldn’t quite believe _what_ he was seeing.

For a moment, Sherlock considered waking up John to ask him, but then realised that figuring it out on his own might just be enough of a challenge to keep his mind occupied. At least for a little while.

Sherlock frowned. The old-fashioned kettle was making some very peculiar noises. It took him far too long to figure out that while he had been lost in thought the water had not only come to a boil, but completely evaporated.

Quickly he picked it off the stove and moved it to the sink where it made the water left at the bottom hiss and sputter. He chuckled, thinking about what John would have said. Possibly something about how Sherlock should not have flushed the steam whistle down the toilet on their first day at the cabin. But it had been so terribly noisy. Like it was demanding they dropped everything to attend to it at once. It had reminded him of Mycroft and to watch it disappear down the drain had been more satisfying that he would ever admit.

John had been livid. It had been very entertaining. Sherlock supposed that was why he had been trying to provoke him again. For the temporary distraction. He wouldn’t want John really angry with him, of course. Just riled enough to get vocal about it. Or even physical, like he’d been about that silly card game. That had been much more fun than anticipated. Being chased around the cabin by John had felt better than anything he had experienced for a long time. Anything since James…

Sherlock shivered. He was not even going to think about that. Not now.

He had been such a fool, being taken in like that. Even if ‘James’ hadn’t turned out to be a murderous psychopath, he should never have let anyone get that close. Have such an effect on him.

It had just felt so right. All his life he had been fighting this… this sentimentality. To just give in and let it happen had been such a relief. Almost liberating. A rush. Like being high. In fact, hadn’t he pointed out this very similarity himself? At the beginning, when it was just kissing and touching? When James made his mind go blissfully blank, cleared it of all distractions. Had in fact improved his skills of deductions. In all areas but one… He had been so blind when it came to James himself. To seeing through his act.

And he really should have. No one could be that perfect. That gentle and caring. Completely selfless, only focused on Sherlock’s desires and needs. Too good to be true.

Well… that wasn’t entirely accurate, was it? In fact, to some extent, John was like that. Not completely, of course. He did not fawn over Sherlock and hang on his every word. Though he did give him those odd looks. And he wasn’t afraid to let Sherlock know when he disagreed with something he said or did. It had, after all, been John who had told him off when he wasn’t treating James right.

Sherlock laughed bitterly. How ironic… Kind and caring John making sure Sherlock did right by lying, scheming Moriarty. When all along, John was the one who deserved Sherlock’s attention and consideration. John was the one…

He gasped. The kettle he had been refilling fell into the sink with a bang, splashing water everywhere, but Sherlock was already at the door to the bedroom. He paused, took a deep breath and opened it slowly.

“John?” he whispered. “Are you awake?”

The only answer was a soft snore and Sherlock closed the door again, careful not to make a sound. No matter how much Sherlock wanted… no, needed… to tell John about this new realisation, waking him up when he was obviously exhausted, was definitely _not_ the right way to do it.

Sherlock backed slowly over to the sofa and sat down. He was not getting much sleep tonight. In fact, he doubted he would even be able to close his eyes.

He shook his head and laughed at himself as he sat there, watching the bedroom door as if it held the biggest mystery of his entire life.


	30. Chapter 30

London was being… London. It said a lot about how bored Sebastian was that he tried to busy himself watching how rain streamed down the windows, while he was sitting on the edge of the desk, waiting. As soon as he had given Jim his daily report (“still nothing”), his boss had snatched the laptop out of his hands, pushed him aside and now he was scrolling aggressively through the new information. Looking for the smallest indication where either Lady Smallwood or Holmes and his pet could be hiding.

Sebastian sighed. “I’ve just told you, you’re not going to find anything in there. I’ve read through all of it. We aren’t magically getting a clue where they are, just because _you_ are the one looking at the screen.”

"Shut up," Jim huffed. "You might easily have missed something. You're no Sherlock Holmes, you know."

Sebastian rolled his eyes. "I can read. Don't you think I'm hoping for something to do just as much as you are? I didn't miss anything. You're wasting time going over this again."

"I'm wasting time talking to you," Jim snapped. "Now shut the fuck up."

"But you won't _find_ anything," Sebastian groaned, shaking his head. "You'd better take up some jobs again, instead of just waiting until Holmes lets something leak out. That one guy was simply begging you to help him getting his sister-in-law out of the way."

"Boring," Jim huffed. Then he slammed the laptop shut, jumped to his feet and began pacing. "All those other things are just... boring... I want Holmes. I will not stop until I've got him. Never."

"As if he isn't boring." Sebastian rolled his eyes.

"He is the only person in this entire country who is _not_ boring," Jim cried, whirling on him. "The only one worth my time."

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Then what am I still doing here?"

"Distracting me?" Jim suggested. "Bothering me?"

"I think you could actually do with a distraction," Sebastian said, getting up from the desk and stepping closer.

Jim glared up at him. "More distractions?" he asked petulantly, though the familiar gleam was creeping into his eyes.

Smirking, Sebastian pulled him close by his hips. "You need it," he said, before kissing him.

Jim squirmed half-heartedly, trying to push him away.

Sebastian chuckled and turned him around, shoving him against the desk. "What do you say, Kitten? Time to play?"

Jim huffed, but did not fight or protest anymore. "If you must..." he muttered, arching his back slightly.

Sebastian grinned and tugged on Jim's trousers. "Just let your Tiger take care of you."

"Fine," Jim said, shifting to let him pull his trousers down.

Once he had gotten rid of both trousers and pants, Sebastian lifted Jim onto the desk and sank down in his knees before him. He looked up, but then took Jim's cock in his mouth and gave a hard suck.

Jim sighed and finally relaxed, letting his fingers tangle in Sebastian's hair.

Sebastian hummed, glad that he had managed to tame his Kitten for now. He took him deeper and started bobbing his head.

Jim moaned softly, his fingers tightening a little, tugging on Sebastian's hair.

After a while, Sebastian pulled back, although he had to pick Jim's fingers out of his hair before he could move away. He got up and grinned at his breathless boss, slowly opening his own trousers.

Jim frowned at him. "What are you doing? Get back down there," he snapped.

"Oh no," Sebastian chuckled. "We can have more fun than just letting you come like that."

"That would be a waste of time," Jim said, putting his hand on Sebastian's shoulder and pushing him down. "Just finish what you started and let me get back to work."

Sebastian frowned and shook Jim's hand off. "And what about me? Should I just have a quick wank while you get back to fawning over Holmes? I don't think so."

Jim pushed him away. "Fine," he said, jumping off the desk and bending down to pull up his pants and trousers. "Do what you want. I'm getting back to work."

"But you're not _doing_ anything," Sebastian snapped, snagging Jim's hands away from the clothes. "You're just sitting there pining for your sweet, sweet Sherly. You didn't ever tell _him_ that there was no time for a shag, did you? You couldn’t get enough. And even when he isn't around because he doesn't want anything to do with you, you'd still rather be the perfect boyfriend to _him_." He was squeezing Jim's wrists painfully.

Jim glared at him, struggling to get free. "I was _never_ his boyfriend," he spat. "It was all an act. It was 'James' who let that loser fuck him. 'James'. Not me."

"Then perhaps you're doing something wrong if the role you played is better to be around than you are," Sebastian said coldly.

Jim gasped. "As if you'd want me to be like that," he snarled. "You are much better suited to the kind of treatment I can give you and you know it. You were made to be fucked, not pampered and sucked off."

"But you're not fucking me these days, are you?" Sebastian shook his head. He had had enough and it was about time that Jim stopped taking him for granted. What could he do, after all? Kill him? It wasn't like Sebastian would be able to mourn himself, was it? "You can't even spare me the time to beat me up anymore. If you can do it all by yourself, go ahead. I won't bother you anymore." He let go of Jim's hands and took a few steps back, half expecting _something_.

Jim stared at him for a moment. Then he pulled up his trousers again and without a word, turned to sit, opening the laptop.

"Okay." Sebastian looked at him for a moment, giving him his last chance, and then turned, pulled his clothes back in place and went out the door.

 

...

 

Soon after he had gone out, Sebastian decided that he would return around midnight. Late enough to let Jim despair that he really had left - if he cared at all - but in time to let him make it up to Sebastian. And if he ignored him again, Sebastian would be gone in the morning. He'd find enough jobs that didn't include an infuriating boss who thought he owned him, while theoretically he could kill Jim with one punch.

He spent the day in a dark pub outside the range of the security cameras, where the other visitors would mind their own business. He ended up leaving a little later than he had planned, and the flat was dark and quiet when he entered.

When he opened the door to the bedroom, a small, croaky voice sounded in the darkness: "Tiger?"

Without any consideration that Jim would be blinded by the light, Sebastian flicked the switch and looked down at him. He was startled by the sight. Jim was sitting on the bed, only wearing a t-shirt. His hair was a mess, he looked pale and his eyes were very red, as if he had been crying or just come down from a high. Sebastian doubted either was true. It probably was just a ploy to let him take pity on Jim.

"Did you take something?" he asked anyway, waving at Jim's face.

Jim bit his lip and shook his head, looking up at Sebastian with big round eyes. "I... I wasn't sure you'd come back," he muttered.

"Neither was I," Sebastian said with a shrug, before turning his back to Jim and starting to undress.

"Then why did you?" Jim asked.

"Because you need me." Sebastian threw his shirt aside, his back still to Jim.

There was a long pause before Jim whispered: "Is that the only reason?"

Sebastian shrugged and sat down on the other side of the bed.

"You don't... need me...?" Jim shifted on the bed, turning so he could look at Sebastian.

Sebastian shook his head, not in answer but in exasperation. All this, and Jim made it about _him_ getting confirmation.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said.

Jim made a small, strange sound and then rolled over, curling up with his back to Sebastian.

Sebastian rolled his eyes and lay down behind him, spooning him and pulling him close to his chest.

Jim sniffed and then snuggled up against him. "Thank you," he whispered.

Sebastian softly bit his neck. "How about I finish what I started this morning?"

Jim shivered and then nodded. "Please..." he whispered. "I want you to."

"Then I will, Kitten," Sebastian smiled, shifting so he was on top of Jim and could kiss him while he rubbed their cocks together.

Jim moaned softly into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Sebastian.

"You can ride me, if you want," Sebastian muttered in his ear.

Jim smiled and pushed them over so he could straddle Sebastian. "I'd love to, Tiger," he said, reaching behind him to stroke Sebastian's cock a couple of time before sinking down on it.

Sebastian groaned and closed his eyes in bliss. "That's it, Kitten." He started thrusting up slowly, putting his hands on Jim's hips.

Jim bent down to kiss him, rolling his hips in the same rhythm.

Sebastian kissed him back and gradually sped up, but in the end he couldn't resist rolling them over to fuck Jim even harder.

Jim clung to him, whimpering and moaning, trying to keep up.

"Fuck... Kitten..." Sebastian groaned, and then he was coming forcefully and collapsed on top of Jim, pressing his face into his neck.

Jim giggled breathlessly, clenching around him.

Sebastian grunted and awkwardly reached between them to stroke Jim's cock.

Jim squirmed beneath him, trying to push up into his hand. It wasn't long before he came with a muted cry, spilling between them.

Sebastian kissed him and then rolled off him. "Thank you, Kitten."

"Thank you, Tiger," Jim muttered sleepily, snuggling up to him.

 

...

 

When Sebastian woke up, he felt more relaxed than he had in days. He stretched and yawned, cracked his neck a few times, and only then noticed that he was alone in the bed. Without bothering to cover himself, he walked into the living room. "Kitten?"

Jim was sitting, fully clothed, at his laptop, staring at the screen as he typed so quickly his fingers were almost a blur. He did not look up as he grunted in response.

Sebastian stepped up behind him and put his hands on Jim's shoulders, leaning over. "Ordering us a good breakfast?" he asked, nuzzling Jim's hair.

Jim huffed. "Of course not. Mycroft Holmes is on the move. Going to France for a 'conference'. I bet he is checking in on his little brother. I need to know when he's going. How. Where he's supposed to be. Where he will actually be. Everything..."

Sebastian sighed. "And you think he'd do that in a way you can simply track him? Come on. If last night wasn’t enough to take your mind off Holmes, we’d better go back to bed to try again."

Jim sighed. "I know it's not going to be easy," he said. "But it must be possible and... it's the only thing I can think off."

"Yeah. That much is clear." Sebastian turned away to go make himself a cup of coffee.

Jim was already completely absorbed in his work again.

Sebastian sighed. He had hoped that things had changed. Last night really had been good. But now they were just back to how they had been. He could understand Jim wanted to keep an eye on things to get to the Holmeses, and at first he had been happy to help. But now it was just an obsession. An addiction that dragged on through all of their days and even made Jim neglect the rest of his business. There was nothing for Sebastian to do. No one to kill.

After a moment's thought, he carried his cup of coffee back into the bedroom and took his own laptop. If he simply made sure that Jim had work again, things would probably get better.

Ten minutes later, Jim cried out: “What the fuck?”

“What’s wrong?” Sebastian asked lazily. He had just finished getting dressed and came out of the bedroom, so he could see Jim. The short man was standing in the middle of the living room, laptop in hands, and almost steaming with anger.

“I didn’t accept any jobs,” he hissed. “Why is this idiotic woman messaging me? How dare she? I’ll skin her…”

“I accepted her offer for you,” Sebastian said, shrugging. “You need something to put your mind on. And it sounded fun.”

“Fun?” Jim screamed at him. “ _Fun_? I had almost figured it out. She distracted me. Now I have to start all over again. And every minute I waste, Holmes is slipping further and further from my grasp.”

“So what? You’ll get another chance. And I’ve told you before, he’s really not going to leave any clues for you. It might be a trap. So just come off it,” Sebastian said.

“Holmes could never trap me,” Jim said, putting down the laptop. “I think I have proven beyond a doubt who is capable of fooling who. Neither of those two clowns ever suspected the truth behind silly little James. They actually believed such a sap could exist.”

“They might have learned. And either way, it’s a lot like that _sap_ to keep obsessing about them,” Sebastian pointed out, crossing his arms.

Jim glared at him. “I am _not_ James,” he screamed. “Don’t you ever even hint I have anything to do with that… that…”

“Pussy-cat?” Sebastian completed, raising an eyebrow.

Jim gasped and just stared at him for an agonisingly long moment. Then he closed his eyes. “Out…” he whispered. “Get out… I never want to see you again.”

Sebastian snorted. “Now there’s a bit of an overreaction.”

“I am not a pussy-cat or any other kind of feline,” Jim hissed through gritted teeth. “I am not a Kitten.”

“Of course you are.” Sebastian was confused for a moment. “You’re my Kitten. Always have been. Why is that suddenly a problem?”

“Because I am nothing like him,” Jim said, slumping down on the chair. “If James was a pussy-cat… Sherlock’s pussy-cat… I can’t be your Kitten. Not anymore…”

Suddenly it was as if Sebastian’s blood was on fire. “So you’re really doing it? You’re actually shoving me aside for that fucking idiot?”

Jim shrugged and buried his face in his hands.

“Fine. Go be _his_ Kitten then.” He snatched up his jacket and slammed the door shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter to go for this story.


	31. Chapter 31

He had seriously fucked up. All those months, building up a life that was still worth living after the war. He had Sherlock to thank for literally everything.

And then he had driven Sherlock into a corner, after all that Moran and Moriarty had done to him, ready to jump him.

He wanted to dive into a pit and disappear forever, but instead he pulled the covers over his head, although it was too warm for that, and stayed there all morning. He had woken up early, but he wasn’t ready to face the world. To face Sherlock, if he hadn’t already called his brother to be placed somewhere away from John. Somewhere safe.

He had never been so ashamed in his life. This whole infatuation with Sherlock had been ridiculous from the start. It was one thing to acknowledge that he was good-looking, even attractive. But even when their only contact had been online, John had been far too intrigued by this one person who linked him to the civilian world. Even when he had had Mary’s company, Sherlock had always entered his thoughts. And in fact, Mary had only made it worse by her insinuations. John might never have let it come so far if she hadn’t planted the idea. Not that she was to blame. Right now he missed her more than ever. If he could only have talked to her to create some sort of order in the chaos that was his mind…

But she was gone, and it had been his fault. Now he had to face his own problems, and hope that his actions would not distract Sherlock too much from tracking down and eventually catching Moran and Moriarty.

 

After he had gotten dressed, mindful not to make Sherlock feel like John was a threat by coming out in nothing but his dressing robe, he still kept fiddling with his covers for a couple of minutes, until they were folded extremely straightly and he had finally gathered enough courage.

He really was rather surprised that Sherlock was sitting in the living room. The detective’s eyes were closed, but he was sitting up in the sofa, facing the bedroom door, so John really wasn’t sure he was asleep, or just avoiding a confrontation in the only way he could. After all, going out now could undo all of Mycroft’s safety measures before they were completed.

On the other hand, Sherlock looked very relaxed. His head was tipped back, showing his long, pale neck as if… No, there was no way John was going to finish that train of thought. He quickly went into the small kitchen and started making breakfast.

Suddenly, Sherlock was right behind him, bending down just a bit to whisper, “Good morning,” into his ear.

Startled, John almost let out a yelp, and dropped the bowl he was holding on the counter with a clatter. How could he not have heard Sherlock sneak up on him? And why was he so… close? After a moment’s hesitation, John decided not to turn around, and only looked back at Sherlock for a second to smile. “Good morning.”

Sherlock smiled too. “Are you making tea?” he asked, not moving back.

“Yeah, that too,” John said, awkwardly trying to pour the eggs out in the pan without elbowing Sherlock in the ribs. “I’m making breakfast for you too, but you don’t have to eat it if you don’t want it.”

“Of course I do,” Sherlock said softly. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“N-no…” John answered, starting to get nervous. “Sherlock… Is everything alright?”

Sherlock immediately took a step back. “Yes,” he said, his voice at a more normal level. “Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

“You’re so… I mean… I’m sorry about last night.” John cleared his throat. “I hope it doesn’t change anything, and it won’t happen again.”

Sherlock chuckled. “No, John. There is nothing to apologise for.”

Now John finally turned around, looking up to scan Sherlock’s face. He actually looked amused. “Okay,” John said cautiously. “I’m glad you see it like that.” It really would be a relief, but on the other hand… Sherlock seemed happy about something. Almost as if he had found a new occupation, a new experiment of some kind. And he really couldn’t blame him for testing a new poison on John, or something. He decided he’d find out what was coming and turned back to the eggs.

Sherlock stood still for a moment. Then he went over to one of the cupboards and got out plates and cups, carrying them to the small table.

John blinked and then followed his movements with his eyes. “Sherlock…” he started, but then remembered he had to take the eggs off the stove if he didn’t want them to burn.

Sherlock was back a moment later. “Yes?” he said as he got out the cutlery.

John bit his lip. “You do realise that you don’t have to apologise for anything, either, right?”

“Right,” Sherlock said. “I know.”

“Okay. So, er… Thanks for helping with the table.”

"No need to thank me," Sherlock said. He put the cutlery on the table and then sat down.

"Okay..." John was still a little hesitant when he had put the food on the table and sat down.

Sherlock poured them both a cup of tea and then began filling his plate with eggs. "Smells delicious," he said.

"It's just... eggs and bacon," John said. "And toast. Nothing special about that."

"It's still good," Sherlock said, picking up his fork. "Thank you." He began eating.

"You're welcome." John watched his teacup for a moment, and then decided he might as well get the poisoning over with and took a sip.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smiled as John drank. "Did you sleep well?" he asked.

"Er, not really," John said. "Did you get any sleep at all?"

"I believe so," Sherlock said. "I must have been asleep when you got up, or I would have noticed."

"Good for you," John smiled, before focusing on his food for a while, trying to think of something to say. "Any plans today?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Try not to get bored out of our minds?" he suggested.

"Yeah, but you seem a lot happier than yesterday, so maybe you had something in mind," John said, smiling.

Sherlock shrugged. "I've been thinking," he said.

"Well, that's new," John commented.

Sherlock almost glared at him, but then just snorted and shook his head. "Not about a case," he said. "About you."

"Oh." John swallowed. "Right. Last night." He should have known. Sherlock wasn't apologising or luring him into an experiment. He was saying goodbye. Sending him out after enjoying a last breakfast together. John looked down.

"Not just last night," Sherlock said, chuckling. Then he did something strange. He reached across the table and took John's hand in his. "Please... John... Look at me," he said softly.

John raised his eyes, but stared at their hands rather than Sherlock's face. "Sherlock... What are you..."

"John," Sherlock said again. "It's fine. It's all fine."

"But..."

Sherlock waited patiently for John to continue.

John bit his lip and thought for a moment before he spoke again. "I'm not sure we're talking about the same thing," he said eventually.

Sherlock frowned and pulled his hand back. "Oh..." he said. "I thought you were... Never mind..." He stood up and walked over to the window.

"Wait... What _were_ you talking about?" John tried.

Sherlock stood still for a moment, pulling on his lower lip. "I thought..." he said hesitantly. "I thought that you... liked me..."

"Of... Of course I like you." John stood up, looking at Sherlock in confusion.

"But how?" Sherlock asked, starting to look confused and slightly panicky. "I... don't know. I mean... You are my friend. My best friend. My only friend. But last night... for a moment, it felt... different..."

"Yes, I know. But you don't need to worry about that." John took a deep breath. It was time he was honest to both Sherlock and himself. "You don't owe me anything, Sherlock. Let that be clear. I love you, and you really deserve to know that, but I'm not telling you because I expect anything. I don't want to let it influence our collaboration. And I'd really like to remain your friend, but if you can't have me around anymore like this, I understand that. Please don't feel like you should give me something you don't really want yourself."

Sherlock shook his head. "You misunderstand John," he said. "It really is fine. I thought about it and I'm okay with it. I... I think I want it."

John blinked and just stared. "You mean..." he managed, gesturing vaguely between them.

Sherlock looked down at the floor and nodded. "If you want..." he muttered.

"I... Yes... But... Are you sure?" John stammered.

"As sure as I can be," Sherlock said then added. "As sure as I was about James. Except... this time I'm not being tricked. Am I?"

"No." John tentatively took a few steps closer.

"Good..." Sherlock said, nervously licking his lips, his eyes darting about, as if he didn't know where to look.

John stopped at a little distance from Sherlock and smiled up at him, trying to look reassuring. It was almost like a dream. Sherlock really seemed to want this. It wasn't just an experiment to see what John would do, or he wouldn't be so uncertain about it. And in a way it wasn't _that_ surprising. They did have so many moments when the world seemed to consist of just the two of them. Had Sherlock told him this before everything that had happened with 'James', John wouldn't have been as surprised, or rather almost shocked, as he was now. He just really hadn't expected Sherlock to be ready for this. And with John, after Sherlock had made it so clear that no one but Moriarty matched his own intellect. John glimpsed some renewed insecurity in Sherlock's eyes and realised his face had fallen at the thought of the criminal. He put the smile back in place.

Sherlock smiled too. But it was a very small smile. Guarded and… scared? John realised that Sherlock was trembling. And then it dawned on him: the detective was terrified. Not of John getting too close or hurting him like Moran had. No, he was afraid that he had somehow gotten it wrong again. That he was putting himself at risk by allowing these emotions. John took a deep slow breath and then did the only thing he could think of. Very slowly, he moved even closer, giving Sherlock all the time to realise what he was doing and to get away if it was too much. But Sherlock stayed in place.

Then, raising himself up on his toes, John closed his eyes and pressed his lips very, very gently against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock froze for just a second. Then a small sound escaped him. Almost like a whimper. He raised his hand and put it, awkwardly, on John’s cheek.

John tried to lean a little more into him, but he was still on tiptoe and almost lost his balance. Grabbing Sherlock arm, he pushed himself back to avoid falling over.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, feeling awkward.

“Don’t be,” Sherlock said, his smile widening a bit.

John fidgeted a little. "So... Do you want some more tea?"

Sherlock chuckled softly. "Yeah... Sure..." he said.

"Good." John smiled and returned to the table to pour them another cup.

Sherlock sat down too, looking down at the cups. "So..." he said hesitantly. "What now?"

"I suppose we can read a bit. Or see if there's anything on the telly, although I doubt it," John said, before taking a sip. He wouldn't actually mind if that plan sent Sherlock sulking on the sofa. Not if he was sitting there reading, within reach to play with Sherlock's hair. He grinned.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. I guess there isn't much else we could do in this place."

"And from tomorrow on, it should be safe to go out," John said.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes," he said, sounding only a little bitter. "A stroll on the heath or along the beach should do much to alleviate the boredom."

John chuckled and reached out to give Sherlock's hand a small squeeze. Then he quickly got up and moved over to the sofa with his cup.

Sherlock watched him. Then he too got to his feet. He filled his cup again and then brought it over. As he sat down next to John, he let out a shaky sigh.

John couldn't help smiling a little. It was such a rare sight, Sherlock seeming nervous. But he would make sure there was no reason to be so. Not that he was all that sure himself what would happen now, but the giddy happiness was still stronger.

Sherlock sat still, staring down into his cup, clearly lost in thought.

In the end, John's amusement made place for worrying. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock looked slowly over at him. "Of course," he said. "There's just a lot to... think about. It's not easy."

"No, of course," John said, almost feeling guilty he had asked. "That's fine."

"Yes..." Sherlock said, with a lopsided smile. "Fine."

John took his book from the table and opened it in one hand, leaving room for Sherlock on his other side. "Don't you usually think better when you're lying down?" he asked.

Sherlock considered his words for a moment, then lay down, resting his head in John's lap. "Yes..." he muttered, his voice so deep it was hardly more than a rumble. "This is much better."

John smiled and started threading his fingertips gently through Sherlock's curls. It had proven to be a far more interesting day than he could have hoped, and he had an inkling that it would only get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that was it. We hoped you enjoyed reading and will leave many comments ;)  
> Next week we will post a commentary on how the story was made.


	32. Commentary

_TLoP:_

It’s been ages since we wrote a commentary for a long finished story. And it feels like a lot has happened since we started writing _New Fronts_ , which isn’t surprising considering that that was eight months ago. But we’ll try to say something relevant about the making of this second part of the _Frontlines_ trilogy. It definitely was the most difficult fic so far.

 

_Jlocked:_

It was bloody annoying. But it had its moments.

 

_TLoP:_

And of course we couldn’t leave things as they were at the end of _Between Frontlines_. We still needed to get Sherlock and John together! Of course this story has helped a lot with that. Sort of. Well, not really.

 

_Jlocked:_

Well, they didn’t really get together before the very end, did they? And boy, did they get up to a lot of trouble first. Which meant a looooot of work for us. And by us I mean ‘the one who has to come up with cases and then solve them’.

 

_TLoP:_

Yes, because you have to do it aaaaall by yourself. You poor, poor thing. I don’t know why you put up with me.

Of course the cases did turn out rather brilliant thanks to all those ideas.

 

_Jlocked:_

Of course I had to come up with them myself. How else was I going to solve them? That’s how Sherlock does it too, right?

 

_TLoP:_

Don’t let Moriarty hear you. He might change his plans in order to discredit Sherlock even more than he already has, and then Sherlock and John won’t even be able to hide in a small room together.

 

_Jlocked:_

Oh, those two will always be able to sneak off and hide somewhere, I think. But… back to casing: at first we really just needed something to keep Sherlock occupied. So… a couple drowned when their car went off a bridge. No big deal. Right?

 

_TLoP:_

Not at first sight. But then why would they involve Sherlock?

 

_Jlocked:_

Exactly. There really _was_ nothing special about it except that someone very influential had insisted he be brought in. But why would someone do that? Well, there had to be something bigger going on, right? And bigger usually means:

 

_TLoP:_

Fattie! I mean, Piggie! I mean… Mycroft!

Sorry, got confused there for a moment. Sherlock would probably approve.

But if Mycroft had asked for the further investigation, Sherlock would immediately have run off, wanting nothing to do with it. So it was far more interesting to make Mycroft the killer this time (although obviously not in a direct way). Though I don’t believe we already knew that much at the start…

 

_Jlocked:_

Our initial plan was, I believe, that Bellinger suspected he had been the intended target. I actually think that we wanted Mycroft to be the one who had suggested he put Sherlock on the case. But then, somewhere along the way, one of us went: “But wouldn’t it be fun if it was actually Mycroft who wanted him dead?” - “Why?” -  “Well, then he can cut Sherlock off from the case and we can forget about it and move on to more interesting things.” -  “Oh… Right.”

Really clever thinking on our part. Which sort of makes me suspect that it was my idea.

 

_TLoP:_

*rolls eyes*

One could, of course, also call it lazy thinking. Yes, must have been her idea.

Of course these events were also beneficial to the Mormor team. If they could get their hands on proof that Mycroft had actually accidentally killed an innocent couple while _trying_ to kill a rather popular, handsome diplomat… Well, then it was time for a party.

 

_Jlocked:_

Yes, and all this was of course my masterplan in the first place, so very clever me. Yay. I’m so good at this stuff.

 

_TLoP:_

Good to see you’re extremely happy with yourself today. I really shouldn’t do the complimenting out loud thing so often…

 

_Jlocked:_

Yes you should.

 

_TLoP:_

It’s getting to your head. We don’t want you to get _worse_ than Sherlock.

 

_Jlocked:_

Too late.

 

_TLoP:_

I know…

Anyway, bad influences aside, John was quite interesting to write in this story. He had so much going on. And when he was finally starting to deal with all his guilt around Mary, his sexual orientation, searching for a flat and a job and not scaring people away because he wanted so badly to have a life again, Sherlock decided to get himself kidnapped. Typical.

 

_Jlocked:_

Yes, John’s problems did not start before Sherlock went to Mexico. Everything was just perfect before that.

Actually…

You guys really caught me off guard there. When, in _Between Frontlines_ , we first mentioned the guy that Sebastian was with in that pub, I figured that everyone immediately knew who he was.

And then when he picked up Sherlock when he was running away from Mycroft’s house, I thought that surely everyone could easily see through the ‘clever’ undercover name. I felt rather silly not saying outright that James was Jim, but it was kind of fun to keep the joke going.

And then, of course, I got the naughty idea to re-introduce ‘James’ as Sherlock’s too-perfect boyfriend and I expected you all to attack me about how I could let that happen (unless of course you were Sheriarty-shippers, in which case: hi!).

I mean… I even put a tiger poster on his wall…

And then the comments started… I was stunned…

 

_TLoP:_

Yes, it really was so obvious that even the Johns of this world would immediately have seen it. And yet the comments making the ‘discovery’ only came at the time of chapter 7! We want to honour MGKaller on FF.net and Tanouska and Vera on AO3 for their realisation, but even then, you were _late_ , guys.

 

_Jlocked:_

I figure it can mean one of two things: either I’m a better writer than I thought. Or... I’m a crappy writer…

 

_TLoP:_

I think we know by now that you can write Jim. (Damn… I’m doing it again… Making it worse and worse…)

Of course I wasn’t immediately convinced of actually doing Sheriarty in a story. I don’t actually ship them. But then Jlocked did that thing she always does and convinced me by imagining how jealous John could be. And making John spy on their date was so much fun. That may well be my favourite chapter of this story.

 

_Jlocked:_

That bit was awesome.

And writing ‘sweet James’ was just too much fun. Because I could feel the real Jim hiding underneath all that sugar, just waiting to come out and play. And when he did, it was bound to be good. And bad…

 

_TLoP:_

Sebastian, on the other hand, wasn’t always pleasant to write, I must admit. That is, I like the challenge of writing him and his interaction with Jim. But where Jim’s kind of evil is about being clever and unpredictable, Sebastian is often just cruel, and on bad days that’s rather hard to do.

 

_Jlocked:_

I think I know what you mean. There was a lot of cruelty in this story. Especially what happened to Jenny Smith. Sometimes it could get pretty nasty. But it was *drumroll* for the story!!!

 

_TLoP:_

Yep. And I think it was worth it. It wouldn’t be very believable if those two boys would go “oh no, we can’t get blood on the carpet”. They _are_ evil like that. Each in their own way, which is what makes them a good team - even though Jim probably thinks he’s too brilliant to need his companion.

 

_Jlocked:_

Right. Jim definitely does not need his Tiger. We all saw that pretty clearly by the end. Right?

 

_TLoP:_

Indeed… *grins widely*

… There’s my inner Sebastian again. Be very afraid.

Then, after all the events in Mexico, the story sort of came to a halt. We had a lot of loose ends to knot together, and actually we wanted to move on.

 

_Jlocked:_

Knotting ends together is not really my favourite part of writing. We needed to let you all know what we, of course, had known all along: why Mycroft wanted Bellinger dead. Rather than spend an awful lot of time having Sherlock work it out, we let Mycroft explain it himself. We had, somewhere along the way, decided that even though this was very much an AU, trying to include as many details/elements from the show as possible could be fun. So, of course, the virus had to come from Baskerville.

And then the idea arose of Sherlock actually working _for_ his brother for a bit. Which turned out to lead to as much fun as knot-tying. I think the original idea was to have the boys hiding in a closet together, but that seemed too obvious, so under the bed they went.

 

_TLoP:_

We wanted to make a bit of a start to push the Baker Street Boys together, which was becoming more and more difficult after everything that had happened. I guess Mormor actually almost succeeded in ruining them, perhaps without knowing what they were doing. But we would make it right. Eventually.

 

_Jlocked:_

I think the biggest problem was figuring out who should make the first move. Sherlock was still pretty damaged after the James-thing. And John was just… John…

 

_TLoP:_

So it couldn’t all happen right away. After having a lot of work with the “Big Skip” in chapter 22, trying to make that fast-forward sound more natural than going “suddenly it’s three months later”, we had to pick them up again with a case related to the earlier events. After all we would also have to get back to Mormor, so it was time to bring Bellinger back, or rather to blow him up.

 

_Jlocked:_

That bit was kind of tricky to write. We kept changing our plans because it didn’t seem quite right. Should he die? Who did it? How? How would Sherlock know? There was a lot of discussing and thinking at this point. But I think the end result works pretty well. And, as many things are with Jim, there were two sides to this: killing Bellinger and pointing Sherlock towards the message Moran had left him. Figuring out what the message should be was actually quite fun.

 

_TLoP:_

And how to get it delivered. Moriarty and Moran could hardly just walk in. In a story where Sherlock and John met in mails, it only makes sense that they'd contact them online. But I can't quite remember how we got the specific idea of the dating site. Care to elaborate on that one, Jlocked? ;)

 

_Jlocked:_

My initial idea was to let Sherlock be right: one of the Andrews kids had made a ‘friend’ online who turned out to be Moran and had somehow been manipulated into delivering the bomb to his father. But someone wasn’t too keen on that idea, so I decided to blame the mother instead. After all, her husband is in jail (and they were probably getting a divorce). Who could blame her for seeking some company? So she’d met a ‘nice’ man online and they’d met up for some casual fun. Only when she got there, she was met with a pile of pictures of her kids and all kinds of personal details. And a smiling Moriarty telling her to deliver the package or watch her kids die.

 

_TLoP:_

I just thought it was too easy to go with the children making the mistake to trust someone online.

 

_Jlocked:_

And I agreed. Though the internet can be a bloody dangerous place, not all kids are complete morons… Great friendships can be made online. By those who know what they’re doing. And the bit with the mother worked great, because then we could do the dating site thing with all the fun names and innuendos.

 

_TLoP:_

The dating site part _was_ fun. It took us some time to come up with the names, as always, but I think it works pretty well now.

And then… Miller time! We knew we wanted Mormor to send Johnlock _something_. But we started by figuring out how they would get that something delivered without being spotted themselves. If they were, Mycroft would have them both locked up in no time. So I had my own moment of brilliance (finally) and realised we still needed to bring Miller back into this story.

 

_Jlocked:_

Which of course meant that we had to write the whole meeting with Miller from the Mormor point of view, and since they were only listening in, that offered a bit of a challenge. But hey, challenges are good every now and then, right? Can’t have us going lazy.

 

_TLoP:_

And it’s kind of cute, or at least very in character, to have those boys snuggling on the bed while they’re listening to how their crime is working out.

I think we were only sure we’d go with the USB stick the moment Miller handed it over. And then its content kept changing and changing.

 

_Jlocked:_

And its name. At first we wanted to write A.G.R.A on it. Which meant we had to figure out what that meant. A very long and complicated case was forming that involved Mycroft being _very_ bad, but in the end we decided that wouldn’t work this late in the story and then we came up with the “Smallwood knows about Bellinger”-idea.

 

_TLoP:_

And if we had Smallwood, we needed Magnussen too. Although I believe he was also involved when we were still working with the Advanced Government Repossession Act.

 

_Jlocked:_

Yes, as soon as the USB was in Sherlock’s laptop, Magnussen was involved. (My brain is making that sound so wrong in all kinds of interesting ways.)

 

_TLoP:_

Meanwhile in another tab I was telling Jlocked that that sounded wrong to me… We’re so horrible.

 

_Jlocked:_

Well, that’s how a psychic link works. I download all my insanity into you.

 

_TLoP:_

Good thing _that_ one didn’t sound wrong. And shouldn’t it be ‘upload’? :P

 

_Jlocked:_

*makes a heroic effort not to say something about it depending on who is on top…*

Whatever…

 

_TLoP:_

*looks at stars* Yes, the psychic link is definitely still on. Bloody hell.

Okay, now I’m distracted. Where were we? (Please don’t answer ‘in bed’. I’m sure we could come up with more original places than that.)

 

_Jlocked:_

Oaks? Tables? Friendly quicksand?

 

_TLoP:_

Oaks. Definitely. Although quicksand would also be typical. (Read the [W-trilogy](http://archiveofourown.org/series/62263) if you don’t get these references :P)

 

_Jlocked:_

And if you do get them, go read it anyway. And comment. Always comment.

 

_TLoP:_

*nods*

So… Magnussen! Right! We had almost accidentally sent them to Appledore right away, but they needed to go to the office first to meet someone.

 

_Jlocked:_

I loved that we could get Janine involved. And ‘copying’ the scene from HLV but with Mary’s killer instead of Mary was pretty awesome.

 

_TLoP:_

And turning Sherlock into a killer instead of a suicide saved us from splitting up the boys for too long. In fact, having him discredited was really just what we needed.

 

_Jlocked:_

Yup. That meant we could finally get to the good bit. The ‘putting the boys alone in a cabin’ bit… Smut-time!!! Right?

 

_TLoP:_

How to Johnlock: put them in a cabin, make them bored and see what happens.

… Not much.

Who knows, it _could_ finally happen in part 3 of the trilogy :P (Or trollogy, as my fingers just offered helpfully.)

 

_Jlocked:_

In this part, as you have probably noticed, all you get is some awkward ‘I kind of like you’ - ‘I kind of like you too’.

 

_TLoP:_

Well, what do you all expect? Some eloquent declaration of love? At least _we_ didn’t go with “Sherlock is actually a girl’s name”!

 

_Jlocked:_

Yes, we do have _some_ respect for our fans. We know you want the boys together, so we’ll give you what you want. Just not a lot of it.

 

_TLoP:_

And after a long time. Maybe that’s what the creators are doing too, only we work more efficiently ;)

Before Sherlock had gotten raped and tortured _again_ , though, we had been making some plans to let this version of Sherlock and John get together. It would all be a big misunderstanding, but with nice consequences, for once. Sherlock would be studying John and compare his actions and expressions to James’. From that, there was only one possible conclusion: John was hitting on him. So Sherlock decided to go with it and, to John’s surprise, kissed him. After a long, passionate shag, they’d be going: “Well, good thing you started that.” - “What? _You_ started it!” - “No, you did!”. And so on.

Just as in canon, they could go: “You didn’t tell me how you felt.” - “No, _you_ didn’t.”

But then, that’s a bit harder to find out.

 

_Jlocked:_

It would have been fun to do, but I think it’s better like this. We can always do a one-shot using the other idea some other time.

 

_TLoP:_

Yes, if at some point we’re out of story ideas. You know, that pages-long list we have, of which we are going to try finishing some ideas before we return to the _Frontlines_ universe.

 

_Jlocked:_

Sorry guys. It looks like hiatus time. But you should be used to that by now. At least you can read all our other stories while you wait.

 

_TLoP:_

And comment on them ;) After all, [law](http://johns-sweetie.tumblr.com/post/91777864149/the-first-law-of-fanfiction) says you should. And this story is _so_ special to us, because we actually had a title before we started! Imagine!

 

_Jlocked:_

And it turned out to be a bloody bitch to write. So next time we’re going back to the old strategy: write the damn thing and then figure out what to call it 5 minutes before we start publishing.

 

_TLoP:_

*giggles* I doubt all that was the title’s fault. But we’ll end up doing what you mentioned there anyway, so we may as well call it a plan.

Oh, and the last chapters also got titles, although we ended up not using them.

 

_Jlocked:_

One of them we didn’t even bother writing...

 

_TLoP:_

“29. Sherlock getting closer

30\. Mormor getting lost

31\. John getting it on

32\. Sherlock getting over it

The end!”

 

_Jlocked:_

Chapter 32 is of course where all the good stuff happens.

 

_TLoP:_

*nods* Brilliant chapter, that one is.

Is there anything else we want to say? Except for goodbye, thank you for reading and until next time?

 

_Jlocked:_

Don’t eat yellow snow!

 

_TLoP:_

… Okay.


End file.
